


Rainflower

by maggsam, writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Not a slow burn but definitely a moderate burn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 111,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8516740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggsam/pseuds/maggsam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: Rainflower, or Zephyranthes.I love you back. I have to atone for my sins.     I'll never forget you.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! Welcome to the first chapter of Rainflower, written by myself (writergirl8/rongasm) and Maggie (maggsam/redstringbanshee.) We have been developing this idea since April of this year, so we are so excited to finally share it with you all the way in November. We truly hope that you guys ultimately come to love this story as much as we do. 
> 
> For these next eighteen chapters, all of the Lydia chapters will be written by me, while the Stiles chapters will be written by Maggie. All chapters will be edited by the incredible wellsjahasghost and madgrad2011. Jade and Rachel, you are truly two people who Maggie and I look up to eternally, and we absolutely adore you for your incredible writing talents and incredible comprehension of these characters. You two are exceptional and we are blessed to have you helping us make this fic as good as it can be. 
> 
> And now, without further ado-- Rainflower.

It is sticky hot outside, the kind of hot that has Lydia's light shirt sticking to her back, beads of sweat rolling down her skin. She stays inside all day, seated comfortably on the window seat in her living room, snapchatting Scott, texting Stiles, and watching the rays from the brightly burning sun settle over the woods that contain so many of her fears. The air conditioning that blasts through her house almost assuages the agony of the heat. She thinks that maybe this is the kind of day you can only suffer through if there's someone there complaining with you.

Unfortunately, Stiles hasn't been able to come over today, as his dad has been forcing him to clean out his closet. They're preparing to leave for college in less than a month, and all of them seem to be pulling their lives up by the roots, attempting to not become messy from the dirt that's still clinging to them. Lydia thinks, though, that it might be too late for her. She's already got mulch all over her knees, and she's got no desire to be clean.

She feels, for the first time, like she has found her people. Feels it when she's helping Malia with her math homework; when she's sitting on Scott's porch swing, talking late into the night; when she's laying on Stiles' bed, watching the sun come up in his eyes. These are the people she's supposed to be with. And Lydia, despite the fact that everything is about to change, feels perfectly still. Perfectly content.

After several hours of blessed silence, Prada finally skids up to her and yips softly, prancing towards the door.

"You want to go out, Prada?" Lydia asks. She marks her place in her book, sets it down on the soft cushion of the window seat, and stretches languidly before she gets up, padding across the floor as she goes to the screen door to let Prada outside.

She's leaning against the arbor, responding to a text from Isaac, when her phone begins to buzz and whirl in her hand. Stiles' goofy contact picture comes up— he's shirtless and in her bed and making the dumbest face in the entire world. She's in love with it. She's in love with him.

"Hey," she says happily, eyes still on the sunset. "It's too hot."

"That's for damn sure," he mutters, sounding far more annoyed about it than any rational person would be. Then again, it's Stiles. There isn't much about him that's rational.

"Want to come over and do something that _definitely_ won't cool us down?"

She hears him laugh through his nose over the phone, but when he speaks, he sounds downtrodden.

"I'd love to, but we actually have to go."

Lydia's smile drops almost immediately.

"The coven?"

"They came back."

"And they're going for the tree?"

"Yeah. We were right."

Lydia's heart goes cold.

"Who was on guard?" she asks, patting her knee until she gets Prada's attention. The dog prances up to Lydia, licking at her ankles as Lydia ushers her into the house and closes the door behind the two of them.

"Liam," says Stiles. "He texted Scott, and we gotta get there fast."

"Are you almost here?" Lydia asks, sliding her feet into the pair of flowered Keds that she has in her front hall closet. She's wearing high waisted shorts with a pretty tank top tucked into it. It's too late to change now. Lydia hopes that nothing happens to her shirt.

"Yeah, I'll grab you on my way," he says, and the line goes dead. She snatches her keys from the hook by the door and sprints down her driveway, reaching the end just as Stiles' jeep pulls up. Lydia hauls open the door and pulls herself easily into the jeep.

"How long ago did Scott call you?" she asks, habitually buckling her seatbelt.

There's a bit of sweat disappearing from Stiles' collarbone into his t-shirt. On a normal day, she'd ask him to pull the jeep over and tug his shirt over his head. For now, though, they're being serious. They have to be.

"Like, five minutes?"

"Shit. Stiles—"

"I know," he says. "Their powers are crazy, we could be too late… I know."

"We can't let them near that tree," she says resolutely, braiding her hair back as she speaks. "People could die."

Stiles takes an abrupt turn, the tires squealing against the pavement as he curves into the woods. He sticks an arm out so that Lydia doesn't pitch forward too much, which makes her roll her eyes but still fills her stomach with warmth. He's always doing these little things to protect her. It's instinctive. He doesn't even realize he's doing it. And it feels so good to have someone who wants to care for her— not _take_ care of her. It's not like she can't take care of herself. Lydia's the one who pushes herself to jump; he's just there to make sure she has soft ground to fall on.

"Almost there," he mutters to himself, hands already back on the wheel. "Almost… yeah."

He abruptly stops the car, kills the engine, and wiggles out of his seat, dropping to the ground. Lydia slams the door behind her and hands her phone to Stiles so that he can put it in his pocket before the two of them begin sprinting towards the sounds of fighting.

When they get there, the first thing Lydia sees is Scott _ducking_ , his whole body bending down as he avoids a ball of fire that's being thrown at his head. He uses the momentum from his bend to push back up and swing his leg at the witch, but it's too late, and another fireball releases from her hand, almost hitting Hayden.

"God," Lydia says, almost awestruck.

"Holy fuck," Stiles curses in agreement.

"You have to stay here," Lydia says shortly. "There's no way you can hold your own against fireballs."

"Lydia—"

She grabs his hand and squeezes it tight.

"Stiles. You can't be in this. You understand, right?" He swallows, hard. Then he nods. Lydia presses a brief kiss to his lips, sweeping her thumb across the shell of his ear and down to his chin. "I love you," she says quietly. Then she takes off towards Scott, smacking a witch in the face with one hand as she uses her power to push Corey over so that a fireball misses him.

Scott looks over at her, his eyes grateful, and Lydia has time to give him a small nod before she swings her leg around, pushing her foot into a witch that's going for her. The witch ricochets back, and Lydia uses the white wisps of her power to throw her against a tree. Her braid swings as she focuses on the next witch that is coming at her. This time, she doesn't bother to use her body at all and screams _loud_ , pushing white energy from her hands that knock the breath out of the witch. Lydia has a chance to shield Malia from a fireball that's coming at her— which is how she finds out that the fireballs cannot penetrate Lydia's sound barriers— before another witch is on her, snarling as she begins to use hand-to-hand.

As much as Lydia doesn't prefer that, she begins fighting back skillfully, prepared from long afternoons of sparring with Malia, who doesn't go easy on Lydia like Scott always does. The witch shrieks as Lydia slams a palm against her heart and then screams in her face, shoving her back.

_Aggressive negotiations,_ Lydia thinks to herself, smirking as she recalls the line. Maybe she'll be Padme for Halloween this year. That would probably make Stiles happy.

She smacks a witch in the face with the back of her hand, causing the witch's nose to break. Except what Lydia doesn't see is the other witch coming for her at the same time. Doesn't realize it's happening until an arm is snaking around her waist, pulling her close, a knife pressed cooly against Lydia's throat.

Once upon a time, before witches and woods and wet grass under her knees as Lydia sat with Allison, Lydia had been strangled. She'd had a mark here on her neck, pink and delicate and small. She can remember the way it felt to have the chord digging into her flesh. And it's much more desirable, Lydia thinks, to not be a sacrifice. To not be anybody's sacrifice, or have to sacrifice anything.

"Give us the tree!" The witch howls, her stomach pressing against Lydia's back. "Let us have it, or I slit her throat."

Scott looks horrified. Lydia sees him lowering his hands, and she shakes her head desperately. No. This tree is the source of everything. This tree is worth so much more than her life. They can give up anything to save Beacon Hills because this tree is everything.

"Don't," warns the witch holding her, digging the knife in a little bit. Lydia's throat works in panic, a little gasp escaping her. "Give it to us!" she repeats, louder, digging the knife in more deeply.

Lydia feels blood being drawn. She feels it pooling on her flesh. And she feels it as the witch's body gets knocked away from her, knife nicking at her skin as the witch goes down.

Her hands find her knees as she hunches forward, gasping in relief, ignoring, for the time being, the sound of desperate screams. She doesn't straighten up until it occurs to her that she can _see_ all the members of the pack. Every single one of them.

Everyone except Stiles.

When Lydia turns around, the screaming has already stopped. Her body rotates until her eyes finally find Stiles, standing with a baseball bat in his hand. There's blood on his t-shirt. On his arms. He looks confused, and horrified. When his eyes find hers, he seems lost. Lydia peers behind him, at the body on the ground.

She is unrecognizable.

Malia is the first one to make a move. She takes out a witch standing near her, and then everybody starts to move into action together. Lydia ignores them, running at Stiles. He drops the bat as he sees her running towards him, and Lydia grabs his hand, snatching it in hers. Her hand slips on the wet, sticky blood that runs across his palm.

"Stiles, come on. You have to _run_. Stiles!"

His head turns to her, shocked. There's blood on his cheeks and splattered across his nose.

"Lydia?"

"Stiles," she begs. " _Run_."

"Lydia," he says again, voice quiet and trembling. "What did I do?"

* * *

 

Stiles is in his bedroom, where the blinds are closed tight and his covers are pulled close around his head. It's Saturday morning, meaning his dad is at work, and Lydia has an iced coffee for herself and a frozen hot chocolate for Stiles.

She's pretending that it's normal, which is better than pretending they don't care. It doesn't feel as wrong against her skin.

Lydia has to move some clutter off of Stiles' bedside table in order to place the drinks on it. She shoves papers, pieces of yarn, condoms— seriously, there isn't a better place for him to hide condoms than in plain sight?— and his cell phone to the floor before she sets the two drinks onto the nightstand and climbs over him onto his bed, peeling the covers back from his face. He's on his stomach, lids closed, face turned towards the sun-filled empty space on the bed where she would be lying if they had gotten to fall asleep together.

It would be surprising that she hadn't already woken him up with noise if Lydia didn't suspect that Stiles had probably only fallen asleep a few hours ago.

She kisses his forehead, then snuggles into his side and presses her nose against his cheek.

"Hey," she murmurs, waiting for his eyes to open to her. They don't. "Stiles?" He still doesn't move. "Okay," Lydia sighs heavily. "I guess you leave me no choice."

She licks his neck. His eyes pop open.

"What the fuck?" he asks, his voice rough and gravelly from sleep. "Did you just lick me?"

Lydia smiles contently.

"Mhmm."

"What the fuck?" repeats Stiles, looking like he's trying not to laugh.

"Want me to do it again?" Lydia asks, her voice getting low, one eyebrow quirking up. His eyes move from her eyes down to her mouth. She watches his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. Then she watches the demeanor of his face change as he blinks, melting into something softer and quieter.

"Maybe later," he says, turning over, onto his back.

Her heart plummets slightly. She edges over on the bed, giving him some space. She sees that register in Stiles' eyes, but then he swallows hard and shuts down his expression.

"I brought you sustenance," Lydia says, flicking her eyes to the frozen hot chocolate. "You should probably eat something else too, though."

"Is this your way of trying to get me to cook you breakfast?" Stiles asks, mouth quirking up.

"That is a _very_ real possibility," admits Lydia, considering all the mornings she's spent sitting on the island of Stiles' kitchen while he putters around, making her scrambled eggs. He's usually shirtless— if he isn't at the start of the morning, he is by the end— and he's almost always wearing plaid pajama bottoms that are slung low on his hips. His hair is never gelled yet, and she likes to wrap her legs lazily around his hips from behind, pulling him towards her until she can scrape her teeth over his ear or bend into his neck and bite him lightly or turn him around and press small kisses against his lips.

"I can do that," he assents, propping himself up on his elbow. "Did you sleep okay?"

She nods, choosing to burrow into his second pillow, watching him watch her. Neither of them speaks for a few moments, waiting for her to ask.

"How about you?"

Stiles cringes, and Lydia doesn't exactly know why he's surprised that she brought it up.

"Fine, I guess."

"What time did you fall asleep?"

"Four?"

"Nightmares?" she asks, already knowing the answer. He shrugs, turning around and putting his feet on the floor. She watches the muscles in his back move as he stretches, and resists the urge to sit up on her knees and trace her fingers over the moles there. When Stiles bends down to the floor to grab a shirt, however, Lydia darts forward, hooking her finger into the elastic of his pajama bottoms and tugging him back into bed. "Hey," she says. "Look at me."

He turns his head to the side, but doesn't shift all the way around. Lydia bites her lip, wanting desperately not to cry, but she's been feeling anxiety clawing at her stomach for the past three days, and she can't stand this. She can't stand not knowing what's going on in his head. Stiles has been so honest with her. She can't lose that just because he's being stubborn.

Lydia slips out of bed on her side, walking around so that she is standing in front of Stiles, who is still seated on his mattress, braced to run. She stands above him, cupping his cheeks, and he leans into her, placing his hands over hers as he stares at her.

"Stop hiding," she says, her voice commanding. She doesn't let on to how scared he's making her feel because that would give him permission to be afraid of himself. And she can't do that. She can't let that happen. "You're hiding from me."

"Lydia, I—"

"Saved my life," she breathes out. "I would have died."

"Killed someone." He finishes his own sentence, ignoring what she'd said. "I murdered somebody else."

"To save _me_."

"I've killed two people. More. More, if you count what I did when the nogitsune was possessing me."

"Which I don't," Lydia says. "Because it wasn't your mind."

The stripes from his blinds are making the sun shine sharply in Stiles' eyes while most of the rest of his face is in shadow. He blinks up at her, looking lost and confused.

"I don't even remember doing it," he whispers. She doesn't know which time he's talking about. She doesn't want to ask.

"Our lives aren't normal circumstances," points out Lydia. "Stiles, it's… complicated. It's complicated, okay? You can't blame yourself."

"Scott's never had to kill anyone."

"You're not Scott," she says sharply. He looks like she's slapped him.

"Yeah," he says, voice too quiet. "I guess you're right."

"That's not a _bad_ thing," Lydia says desperately, grabbing his chin and tilting it towards her, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Stiles, I'm in love with _you._ "

"You deserve—"

"Shut up," she says, cutting him off. "Stiles, you did the right thing. I didn't feel like I was going to scream. Not _once_. Do you know why?" He shakes his head, sliding backwards so that he's in the center of the bed, where she can't touch him. "It's because you were always supposed to do that. You were always supposed to save me."

She doesn't even know if she believes it herself, but she does know that she is willing to say absolutely anything to make this go away. To make him believe that he did the right thing.

"I don't—"

But she crawls into his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he holds her automatically, lowering his head so that his ear is against her chest, listening to her heavily thudding heart that belongs irreversibly to him.

"I want to be alive," she whispers, stroking his hair from the top of his head, letting her hand drift softly down his neck, and repeating it over and over again. His arms are around her torso, and his body is so contorted that she knows he can't be comfortable, but she continues to speak, letting him clutch onto her. "I want to be alive with you."

He breathes out a long, stuttering breath, and Lydia disentangles herself from him long enough to pull her shirt over her head and take off her bra, letting him press kisses into her breasts as she rocks herself over him.

A few minutes later, she finds herself on her back, giving herself to him over and over again, hoping that the rhythm that their bodies create is enough to keep him with her. Hoping that it's enough to make him see.

He cuddles into her afterwards, arm slung across her stomach, smile pressed into her shoulder, and she thinks, rather naively, that she's won.

* * *

 

The heat breaks on a Thursday night when the pavement in Beacon Hills begins to crackle with rain. Lydia watches from her bedroom window, her laptop on her knees as she curates a list of things she's going to need for the move to a dorm room. She's in the process of wrinkling her nose at the idea of having to wear flip flops in the shower when her phone lights up with a text from Stiles, asking if he can come over. She responds with the affirmative, trying to ignore the excitement in her gut and the way her heart has started to thump a bit faster.

Lydia sets her laptop down and goes to her dresser, grabbing her hairbrush and pulling it through the messy strands before checking herself in her full length mirror. Bare feet. Green dress. The usual rings on her fingers. And a reasonably unusual smile on her lips, stretched wide, reaching her eyes as she presses her lips together. She looks like she has a secret, Lydia thinks, and she presses it further to her chest, keeping it.

Stiles' jeep pulls into her driveway, crunching against the gravel. Lydia waves to him out her open window before she dashes down the mahogany staircase and throws open the door to her house. He gets out of the car slowly, causing Lydia to become antsy as she stands in the entryway to her house, waiting for him.

She doesn't want to wait anymore.

Feeling itchy with the need to have her hands on his body, Lydia closes the door behind herself and walks down the stairs of her front porch, running towards Stiles on her tiptoes as spitting rain begins to drench her body. The sun has just begun to go down, leaving it a little darker than it had been when he first called, but Lydia can still make out the expression on his face as his eyes trace her features. He stands next to his jeep, staring at her, a slight pinch to his brow as he watches her.

"Hi," she says, arms circling his neck, standing as tall as she can on her toes.

" _Hi_ ," he replies, wonder in his eyes as he looks down at her. He gets like this sometimes. Stares at her like this, with awe in his expression, like he can't believe he's holding her. "I love you." She smiles, almost feeling shy as she bites her lips and looks down. When his hands grip her waist, she tilts her head to the side and peers back up at him through her lashes.

"Kiss me?"

He doesn't even think about it, just plunges his mouth to hers and kisses her with such verve that Lydia thinks she can feel it down in her toes. There is nothing playful about the kiss; it is long and serious and he is licking at every part of her mouth like he's trying to memorize it all over again.

When Stiles pulls back, his eyes are dead serious. "Lydia. You _know_ I love you, right?"

Her single nod is paired with confused eyes, her hands slipping from his shoulders to press against his chest as she stares up at him.

"I know," she says. "What's wrong?"

He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers, and when his hand comes around the back of her head to run his fingers through her hair, she realizes that his fingers are shaking slightly.

"I… I brought you flowers."

The window of the jeep is rolled down, and Stiles reaches in, coming up with a bouquet of ballerina pink flowers. They look perfect. They look flawless. Lydia frowns as he thrusts the flowers into her hands.

"Stiles?"

He clasps their hands together and starts to walk them towards her front porch, taking his time before he speaks.

"They're, um, they're rainflowers."

She blinks rain out of her eyes, trying to understand what he's getting at.

"Okay?"

Stiles pulls her out of the rain, up the steps of her front porch, absently running his hands up and down her arms as he speaks in an attempt to rub away some of the goosebumps from the cold rain against her skin.

"They… um… my mom. She had this plant book when I was little. Super old… like, I think it was my grandma's, to be honest, but she used to thumb through it and plant flowers in our garden that were… I dunno, she said they were good omens, or something. She was really superstitious; did I ever tell you that?" Lydia shakes her head wordlessly. "Yeah, it was weird. But, anyways, she—"

"What do rainflowers mean?"

He squeezes his eyes shut at how cold her voice has gone, wincing.

"I'm getting there."

"Stiles." Her voice is loud and harsh and it wavers as she speaks. "What do rainflowers mean?"

The breath that he pulls into his body is shaky at best. She feels the accumulation of dread in her stomach, clawing at her. She thinks about the soft bites she puts in the juncture between Stiles' shoulder and neck, and the harsh bite that Peter Hale had thrust on her. Somehow, Lydia thinks that this moment feels more like the second.

"They mean… I love you back." He opens his eyes. Trains them so intently on her face that Lydia thinks he can see something that isn't there— or maybe he isn't seeing her expression at all. Maybe he's just committing this to his mind. "They mean 'I love you back.' They mean 'I have to atone for my sins.' And they mean 'I'll never forget you.'"

Her stomach bottoms out.

" _Stiles_."

The energy seems to whoosh out of him in a sudden rush, and he sits on the porch step. She follows him down almost automatically, not sure when she made the decision to move.

"I killed someone else, Lydia."

"You were saving me."

"I'm _fucked up_. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who doesn't do fucked up things."

She pushes the flowers back at him.

"I don't want these," she says insistently, horrified by the desperation in her voice.

"I have to go."

"Stiles—"

"I gotta leave," he says hoarsely, leaning over and kissing her temple. "I love you so much, Lydia. So much."

Her heart is beating wildly somewhere in her throat as she watches him walk down the steps of her house, striding slowly towards his jeep.

"Stiles," she calls after him, standing up on the porch step, her voice cutting through the pounding of the rain. "I don't even _like_ flowers."

He pauses. Turns around, body blocking the dying sun.

"Yeah. I know."


	2. Forget-Me-Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget-Me-Nots, or Myosotis Scorpioides.
> 
> True and undying love, remembrance during time apart. 
> 
> A lasting connection.

Lydia has never liked being bored.

Before Allison arrived at Beacon Hills High School, she had never felt listlessness about her life. But today she is sitting in a restaurant that used to be her favorite place to eat. She is wearing a champagne colored dress, her hair swept up into a neat chignon, pearls resting at her throat. And, as she takes a sip of the most expensive red wine on the menu, she finds herself desperate to stand up from the table and run.

Lydia has been making the active choice to be bored for three years. The problem with knowing what it feels like to not play it safe is that going back to safety is _boring._ She's bored with this restaurant, she's bored with the same wine every time, and she's bored with the man who sits across from her at the table, cutting into his duck and speaking about whatever the hell is going on in the stock market.

In all honesty, Lydia is pretty sure she knows more about the stock market than he does, but she doesn't say anything about that because Carter knows that she's a genius, he does, but he doesn't really care. He looks across the table at Lydia and chooses to see her as a trophy, and she lets him. She lets him because she's too lazy to find someone else to fuck; too listless to go searching for somebody who will entertain her. So she lets Carter take her home in the Rolls-Royce that his father had bought him for his twenty-fifth birthday and she smiles at his mother when she hints to Lydia that careers and babies don't go together and she goes golfing with his living, breathing cliche of a father.

It's a comfortable and familiar pattern— one that feels like well worn flip flops and new school supplies every September and a spring day that settles easily across her skin. But some days, Lydia wants heat. She just wants to kick off her exceptionally high heels and _run_. The problem, of course, is that she has nothing to run to.

No one to run to.

"So… how are you liking your food?"

Carter's blue eyes crinkle pleasantly as he looks across at her, his mouth pulled up into an easy smile. Lydia glances down at the lamb she's eating and then gives him a small, satisfied nod.

"The rosemary is delicious," she comments. "It reminds me of how your mother makes her lamb at Easter."

The mention of his mother's cooking is enough to make Carter's lips stretch across his perfectly white teeth, flashing her an adoring beam. Lydia knows why. It's because she's simple for him. She's easy. And she's made herself that way. She's made this life with him, constructing it out of nothing that burns.

Her fingers still tingle for something else when she touches him, but Carter doesn't know that.

"That's what I love about you, baby," he says. She wants to sigh at the nickname, but she forces the smile on her face to remain plastered there, because she is playing the part of a girl who loves this. Loves him.

"Hmmm," she says sweetly in lieu of returning the sentiment, but Carter keeps speaking.

"You're so much a part of my life and you have been for the past few years. My parents love you, and _I_ love you, and you fit, Lydia. You fit." She doesn't. She's a _banshee_. She doesn't fit at all in the perfect Easters at his parent's country home, and the warm Christmases in the city house, and the Thanksgivings at the vineyard. Every time she sits down at their table, she brings death there. And Carter will never know that. "You fit, and mother and dad agree, and that's why…" He pauses, then sinks easily onto one knee, tugging a robin's egg blue box out of his back pocket and popping it open to reveal a simple, generic engagement ring. "Will you, Lydia Martin, do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

She's thought about this before. About how she'd get proposed to. She'd thought about what she would be wearing, where she would be, what her hair would look like, whether she'd be prepared. This proposal looks like the one she had fantasized about when she was fifteen-years-old and dating Jackson. But the stylish dress that clings to her skin suddenly feels too tight, because it's not the only proposal she's ever thought about.

At one point, Lydia's perfect proposal had looked different. It had been whispered into her skin by thin lips while a cold nose pressed against her shoulder. It had been casually dropped in her lap by a grinning boy who shrugged casually when she looked up in shock. It had been shouted from across the room until she admonished him into asking again, this time with a long, rambling speech about a character that she isn't just playing— a character who actually defines her.

The fingers that open the ring box are too short and too straight. She wants knobbly. She wants them to tremble, instead of the confident, casual smile on his face that is too small to be quite right.

"Oh, Carter," she breathes out. In another world, when she was in love with Jackson, she had gotten onto her knees with him to show equality and faithfulness. But that had never been what Jackson wanted, as Lydia had learned quickly enough. That had never actually been a relationship that was going to move. It was stagnant; she couldn't fix him or change him.

She can't change Carter either. Not like she'd changed herself. And maybe she wouldn't want to try. He is sweet, and simple, and he makes good money, which wouldn't matter anyways because he has a trust fund. He is everything that she used to want before she had become best friends with Allison Argent and learned boredom. Learned that happiness and luxury aren't exactly the same thing, and that pretty is wiry fingers and brown eyes and a nose that turns up a little bit at the end.

"Is that a yes?" he asks.

"That's a…" Lydia straightens up. "That is a 'I am _honored_.' And I will think about it carefully, darling." He smiles at the pet name. "But I can't say yes quite yet."

"I understand."

Or maybe he's smiling at the fact that Lydia, after all this time, is still somewhat of a mystery to him. She thinks that he likes that he can't quite figure her out all the time. Everything in his life has been decided for him since birth. Perhaps some of the confidence comes from there— derives from everything going his way. He probably thinks that she is almost certainly going to say yes. He probably has no idea that he is even more of a trophy boyfriend to Lydia than she is a trophy girlfriend to him.

"We make quite the match, don't we?" Lydia comments airily.

And she knows how it sounds. She knows how it comes across. But it's not what she means.

She goes down on him in the car on the way back, trying to keep him satiated because she doesn't feel like sex tonight. She doesn't want him to come into her condo and take her to bed— she wants to change into her sweatpants, braid back her perfectly blown-out hair, and throw on the t-shirt that says 'Beacon Hills Lacrosse' on the front and 'McCall' on the back. Predictably, Carter doesn't even ask to come in after she swallows him down.

As Lydia gets out of the car, she kisses him on the cheek instead of the lips. Her small front porch is only a few steps away from the curb, but she's so swept up in her thoughts that she doesn't see it until she's fumbling through her bag for her keys. There's a large bouquet of blue flowers sitting on her front porch.

Lydia opens the door, then bends down to pick them up, rolling her eyes when she sees the flowers more clearly. Forget-me-nots, she realizes as she brings them into the house. She places her key on the hook, puts her bag on the mail table, and kicks off her shoes, dropping about five inches as she does so.

Forget-me-nots, or _myosotis scorpioides_. Lydia narrows her eyes at the flowers as she walks into her kitchen, setting them on the counter and flicking on the light, searching for the card she knows won't be there.

Forget-me-nots, the scientific name means 'mouse's ear' in Greek. They prefer dry conditions, such as sandy soils. They mean true and undying love. Remembrance during time apart. A lasting connection.

Stiles.

She pours herself a glass of prosecco, gulping a little bit in the hopes of getting the taste of another man out of her mouth while she looks at Stiles' flowers. As she lowers the flute back to the counter, she recalls another applicable meaning for the flower, smiling a little bit as she remembers it.

Faithfulness and loyalty, regardless of how long you've been apart, or whatever challenges have come your way.

Lydia opens up her trash bin and viciously slams the flowers in, lips still curved upwards.

 

* * *

 

 

"You got flowers again last night."

The downside to having a co-worker help you find a place to live is that, in this case, Lydia's co-worker had found availability in the same complex that she resides in. And Lydia loves Abby, she really does, but she's always been one of those people who _hates_ talking at work. Work is the place that she goes to escape from the flowers that appear on her front porch frequently, no matter where she moves to. When Lydia puts on her lab coat, she doesn't want to think about anything but the research.

Her co-worker, unfortunately, is more of a whistle-while-you-work type.

"I did."

"I'm assuming Carter didn't send them?" The knowing glint in Abby's eyes is enough to make Lydia regret _ever_ getting frustrated and distracted one day and revealing that the flowers were not, in fact, from the guy who Abby continually supposed they were from. "They're from that dickish ex boyfriend you told me about who broke up with you via sticky note, right?"

Thank you, Taylor Swift.

"That's the one," Lydia confirms, frowning down at her notes and scribbling something in before she turns back to her beaker.

"What a dick," Abby says. Then, a moment later, "Seriously, though, how many years has it been?"

"We were eighteen," Lydia says. "So… six."

"And he's still sending you flowers?"

"Unfortunately."

"Some people just can't take a hint."

She thinks that it's probably less that he can't take a hint and more that he knows that she's still in love with him. That she hasn't been able to stop despite how desperate she is to.

God, he's obnoxious.

"I know, right?" murmurs Lydia absently. She's in the middle of ignoring Abby, who is telling a story about one of her more persistent exes, when her phone begins to vibrate in the middle of the table. Scott's contact picture pops up, and Lydia smiles at once, pulling off her goggles as she presses the phone to her ear. "Hey," she says. "How was your date?" There's silence on the other line. "You didn't go, did you?"

"Uh, no?"

"Scott! She literally strolled into your clinic and asked you out on a date. This could _not_ have been easier for you."

"I was busy."

Lydia lifts an eyebrow, desperately wishing she could fix him with a judgemental stare. This is definitely why they invented FaceTime.

"Busy doing what, may I ask?"

"Um, Malia and Mason had tracked down a—"

"I don't want to hear this, do I?"

"No, probably not."

She sighs.

"I'm setting you up with someone and you're going to actually go on a date."

Abby's head shoots up. Lydia ignores this. She's not going to mix business, home, and friends. Definitely too many eggs in each of those individual baskets.

"Okay," Scott says amiably.

"I know you're just agreeing because you're being nice."

"Oh, good." He sounds relieved. "That'll save me the effort of having to call her and cancel."

Lydia sighs.

"What's up, Scott?"

"Can we have lunch?" he asks. "I'll drive down and everything, I just have to talk to you about something."

"I was planning on working through lunch, actually," Lydia says, leaning back in her stool and twisting around a little bit. "Can I take a raincheck?"

Normally he's easygoing about those things, so his answer surprises her.

"Actually, no."

"Oh, come on," she says breezily. "You can come over tonight and we can keep marathoning—"

"No, Lydia."

Something in his tone gives Lydia pause.

"Is something wrong?"

He hesitates.

"I just need to talk to you about something."

"Is this a good something? Like 'Lydia, I finally got laid after a dry spell so long the dinosaurs were still laying eggs the last time I had sex?'"

She sounds like Stiles. She knows she sounds like Stiles. She _hates_ it.

"Not really."

At least he has the decency to sound guilty about it.

"Fine," says Lydia. "I'll meet you at Annie's. And you're buying. You didn't buy that poor girl dinner last night, so you can buy me lunch today."

"Fair enough," Scott replies. "See you at one?"

"Sure," Lydia affirms, slipping her protective glasses back on. "See you then."

She tunes out Abby for the rest of the morning, letting herself get lost in beakers and papers and the slew of information on her laptop that still tends to make her heart flutter just a little bit. She loves doing this. She loves coming into work and feeling like she has a purpose in being there. Her mother used to tell her that her brain could do amazing things for other people, but Lydia didn't understand the value in that until she was in high school. Now she couldn't imagine doing anything else.

It's not actually surprising when Scott texts her fifteen minutes before they're supposed to meet, reminding her to look up from her work. She rolls her eyes but smiles and sends him a quick "on my way" text before hanging up her lab coat and releasing her hair from the tight bun that it's in at the back of her head. There's a few other messages on her phone too— one from Kira, asking for advice on an outfit ("God yes to that skirt, absolutely not with those shoes.") and one from Carter, asking her if he could have an answer by the time they have dinner on the yacht with his parents on Friday night.

She thinks about how much she would rather be eating Chinese food in pajamas with Scott as she puts her phone back in her purse without responding to the text.

The area in which Lydia works is largely populated by college students, but there's several cute little cafes down the street from her building. She finds herself enjoying the day as she walks to Annie's, considering what she's going to wear on Friday night. Her heels beat confidently against the dark brick of the sidewalk, and her smile grows when she sees Scott leaning against his bike, waiting for her outside of the restaurant.

"How are the brutes?" she calls to him when she's close enough. Scott looks up from his phone, matching her smile.

"I'm assuming you mean the animals?" he asks, and Lydia nods. "They're good. How are the chemicals?"

"Equally as good," she says decisively, linking her arm through his. "Plus they don't bite. You ready to go in?"

They make their way into the small cafe and grab a table near the window, neither bothering to look at the menu. They don't need to. This is a frequent thing that they do; it's become their place since Lydia started working so close to Scott's clinic.

"I guess I should ask how Carter is," teases Scott.

Lydia tries not to smirk.

"Oh, sweetie. At least _pretend_ to like him."

"I am pretending! That was me pretending."

"I actually think that was _aggressive_ by your standards."

"Sorry," he says, looking genuinely apologetic.

"I would suggest enrolling in some acting classes, because Carter's going to be around for a long time," Lydia says smoothly. At the expression on his face, she looks down, trailing her finger over the different items on the menu just so she doesn't have to look at Scott as she says, "He proposed."

Even though she isn't looking at his face, Lydia can see Scott's body tense.

"And you're going to say _yes_?"

It's his tone of voice that settles it for her.

"I am."

"He was supposed to be temporary."

She knows. And Scott's right— she'd made that excuse to him so many times that she thinks she might have lost count.

"It took me by surprise, I'll give you that. But, Scott, this is what I want. I don't want something else."

He knows _exactly_ what she means by 'something else.' It is passion and ease and chemistry and intimacy. It is what is real. 'Something else' is everything that Scott holds dearest and that Lydia avoids like the plague.

"Yes you do. Of course you do."

"Who are you to—?"

"I'm your best friend." She stops talking. "And just because you got hurt, doesn't mean you shouldn't be in a relationship that's a risk."

"You're one to talk. You haven't dated anyone since people still thought smoking was healthy."

"But at least I'm not throwing my life away on a someone who's easy for me." She doesn't meet his eyes. "Lydia. You can't grow old with easy. You'll get bored with easy."

She's already bored, and Scott sees it every time they talk.

"Investment means it hurts more when it falls flat."

"But at least you _jumped_."

"Oh no. I'm not doing that again. I'm going to marry Carter, I'm going to move to an enormous house in a gated community, I'm going to—"

"Lydia, it's Stiles."

She shuts her mouth immediately as her heart drops into her stomach. Because of course it's Stiles. It's always Stiles. She sees him every time she talks to Scott. She feels him pressed against her every time Carter is moving inside of her. She pictures his smile whenever somebody tries to make her laugh and can't. Not like he did.

Only when she has full control of her voice does Lydia speak.

"We have an agreement," she says flatly.

"I know." His face is full of an earnest regret that only serves to make Lydia feel worse. "I know, but this is an emergency."

"We aren't allowed to—"

"Look, I know, but… can you just hear me out, Lydia?"

In her heart of hearts, Lydia knows that Scott would never bring Stiles up if it wasn't absolutely essential. He sees Stiles every time he looks at her, as well. Although neither of them want to admit it, Stiles is the reason the two of them are sitting in this cafe right now. He is the knot that keeps their two strings tied together.

"Fine." Her eyes are on the table when she speaks, because she isn't giving him any more than that. She can't. If her face moves, it could crack, and if it cracks, everything will _shatter_. Lydia can't break the facade. She is far too settled to let go of any of this.

"I've been keeping track of him," Scott says. "I mean, at first I wasn't. 'Cause he vanished, and—" He hesitates, and Lydia hears exactly what Scott doesn't say: _Stiles left us. He left us._ "But when he sent you those flowers after he left… well. It was the first time we'd heard from him in almost two years. And after we knew he wasn't dead, I started keeping tabs on him."

"And?"

"And it was easy. Because he started to make a name for himself in the supernatural community." Lydia looks up, startled. "He's… it's weird. He's like one of those stupid comic book heros that he always used to love. He goes around, and… I don't know, I guess he finds supernatural creatures who are ravaging towns that are similar to Beacon Hills, and he… gets rid of them."

"Gets rid of them?" Lydia repeats. She starts to smile. "Like a supernatural exterminator?"

"More like a vigilante," Scott says humorlessly. "He's become notorious. People are actually afraid of him, Lydia. It's insane."

She feels like he's telling her a story from a book— a fairytale. Because this isn't real. None of this is. Stiles doesn't go around _killing_ people. He's never even held a gun. He is her lanky, scrawny boy who used to blow raspberries on her cheek to get her to pay attention to him, and who never woke up before noon if he could help it, and who cared more about his dad eating healthy than he cared about most other things in the universe.

Reconciling the two images is impossible. So Lydia doesn't try.

"Is he dangerous?" she inquires emotionlessly.

"He's been dangerous to himself for years," Scott admits. "But… I just kept tabs. I left him alone. People would… update me about him. They know who I am. They know that he used to be a person in my pack. I have this box at home that's full of newspaper clippings about murders that he's—" Scott stops talking, looking sick. Watching him, Lydia's throat thickens. She wants to reach across the table and take his hand, but she can't move. "Except it's bad this time, Lydia."

"How do you define 'bad?'"

"Valkyries. Twenty of them. Dead. It was a bloodbath, they say."

Her hands ball into fists on top of the table.

"He killed all of them?"

Scott nods.

"I think… Lydia, I think he's gone."

Forget-me-nots. _Myosotis scorpioides._ True and undying love. Remembrance during time apart. A lasting connection. Faithfulness and loyalty, regardless of how long you've been apart, or whatever challenges have come your way.

"And you want to try to contain him?" she guesses.

"I want to try to _talk_ to him."

She scoffs.

"Right. Good luck with that."

"We have to at least try, okay? We have to attempt to fix it." She shakes her head disbelievingly, but he continues. "Lydia, what happened to Stiles… it's my fault. My responsibility."

His words call her back to high school, and her insides freeze in shock as she hears the same sentence spoken in her ear in a rough, frightened voice, Stiles' arm tight around her body. When she looks up and scrutinizes the look in Scott's worried eyes, she suddenly knows that she will do whatever he asks, regardless of how much it makes her ache.

"You have a plan?" she guesses.

Scott bites his lip, nodding worriedly.

"Yeah. But I need you."

Lydia doesn't need to ask why. Both of them know that Stiles is still sending her flowers.

"And you know where to find him."

"I do."

She nods. Slowly at first, with detachment. Then more quickly as she looks over at Scott, who is studying her face with hope in his eyes.

Forget-me-nots. _Myosotis scorpioides._ True and undying love. Remembrance during time apart. A lasting connection. Faithfulness and loyalty, regardless of how long you've been apart, or whatever challenges have come your way.

"Fine," she agrees, a fake smile washing over her face. "But we come home, we pretend it never happened, and I'm still marrying Carter."

"I wasn't aware that the two problems were related," Scott comments, that familiar smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at the menu, using the tactic usually employed by Lydia when she's trying to remain falsely, condescendingly casual. When he looks back up at her, a smug grin playing at his lips, Lydia's mouth is parted in surprise. "What? I'm just saying. You're the one that connected them. Not me."

"Scott—"

"No, it's okay," he says, looking more at ease than he has the entire conversation. "I have at least a year to change your mind about this." Then he turns to the approaching waitress, the smile still on his face. "Hi there. Could I have milk, please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Thank you so, so much for the incredible feedback on the prologue! It made both of us so freaking excited to post the next chapter. We're so excited and happy that there's been so much excitement for this fic. We really, really hope that you like where chapter two takes these characters. 
> 
> I tried to answer all of the reviews on the chapter, but in case you missed my response, thank you so much for taking the time to leave a comment. It makes me feel so happy to see all of the enthusiasm for the chapter and to see all the Stydia love!
> 
> ~Rachel


	3. Heather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather, or Calluna vulgaris.
> 
>  
> 
> Solitude.

Hour 0500.

 

The sheets are scratchy. Maybe he should have sprung for the higher thread count. It would have been nice to spend his last night alive in a bed that was at least tolerably uncomfortable. It also would have been nice to spend his last night alive with someone that mattered.

Stiles rolls over to the warm body by his side, pressing a large palm to silky caramel skin. The body beneath his hand shuffles and lets out a languid sigh. His eyes trail to the shapely leg sticking out from beneath those scratchy bedsheets. He smiles to himself. She is sweet, like cotton candy; all glossy floss and zero nutritional value. He thinks her name is Amanda, but he’s not certain enough in this to call her that. Why doesn’t he know? He should know. This is the third time they’ve slept together since he saved her alpha from a rival pack.

Sometimes he feels like maybe she’s using him just as much as he’s using her. She’s got a nice sense of humor, and her hair is shiny. But she’s like him when she smiles. Nothing intentionally malicious, but something rotting and dead floating just below the surface. He hasn’t cared enough to search any deeper than that.

He touches her again, giving her shoulder a gentle shake, and she emits a low groan.

“Hey baby,” Amanda(?) says, rolling over to face him.

“Can we take a rain check on breakfast? I’ve got work to do today,” he says, already feeling like an asshole. But his loft is bathed in soft blue light and it’s five in the morning and he’s practically behind schedule already. This day is too important waste on something as meaningless as attachment.

She studies him for a moment before plastering on a fake smile.

“Sure, babe.”

Does she call him sticky-sweet pet names because she knows the name he gave her isn’t really his name?

“Sorry, I just--”

“--Have a lot of work to do today, yeah. You told me.” She sits up, taking the itchy bedsheet with her, leaving him cold.

 

* * *

 

  


Stiles knows exactly what’s going to happen when he hears her turn off the spray of his shower. He listens to the soft padding of her bare feet on his bedroom floor and looks up from tying the laces of his leather boots. She’s standing in the doorway, dark hair dripping onto the soft blue towel wrapped around the luscious curves of her body.

She really is beautiful. Tall, skin warmed brown from the sun, lips full and eyes almond. Stiles feels a twinge of guilt pass right through him, striking hard and fast before slipping into the empty air. They watch each other for a moment, and he knows he’s not the only one who feels the weighty, concrete finality.

“They told me not to trust you, you know.” She whispers, slinking forward to stand between his legs. His hands come to rest on the elegant slope of her full hips. “They told me you were dangerous.”

“I saved your pack,” Stiles quirks a brow, heart thudding brutally in his chest. “How does saving everyone make me dangerous?”

She sits on his knee, taking his scruffy jaw in her hands and studying him.

“There are stories about you. My alpha said when you kill, you don’t blink. Not even once.”

“....Oh man, I hope the stories include my ruggedly-handsome good looks.”

It’s a joke, but she doesn’t even try to summon a smile.

“Look at me,” she murmurs, and he suddenly finds himself itching to get out of his skin. “You never look into my eyes.”

He forces them to flit to hers, and _goddamn it_ he tries. He tries so hard to stare back, to _look_.

They hold briefly before falling to the side.

He can physically feel her disappointment in the sad sag of her shoulders; the way her fingers trail over his chin before falling into her lap.

They fuck and it’s hard and passionate. Her legs are slung over his arms, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. She throws her head back and moans, wantonly. She calls him ‘baby.’ She screams out when she’s about to come. He buries his face in her neck so she won’t ask him to look into her eyes.

 

 

He kisses her goodbye at the doorway and informs her that he is going to die today.

“You say that every day,” she smiles, not unkindly, before shutting the door behind her. And then he’s completely alone.

  


* * *

 

 

It starts like this, every morning at five.

Breakfast alone, watching The Wall. The Wall, an expanded version of the conspiracy board he had in high school. It takes up half of his apartment, every inch of the off-white paint covered by photographs and newspaper clippings and endlessly looping green and red strings. It flutters in the breeze of the lazily spinning ceiling fan above, alive and growing.

It begins his day, and it ends it too. He lays across from The Wall at night, watching it; the hundreds of faces and words and pops of color, moving in the gust of mechanical air. Is The Wall breathing, or is it someone else? Is someone else in the room? Is he not alone? Sometimes he swears he hears a heartbeat, before realizing it’s just his own.

After breakfast he does his fitness routine, and at times he’s struck with the absurdity of it all. He couldn’t run a mile in high school without wanting to puke. Things are different now. He’s not that same person anymore, but his mind is still his strongest weapon. Though, the HK416 Assault Rifle he polishes daily is a worthy contender.

Post-workout, he stands by his window, peeking out of the blinds for ten minutes. The same black car has been circling the block for two days now. He’s certain of it. He’ll keep an eye on that, but for now, it’s better to wait than to react.

It seems like his life is nothing but a series of actions and reactions. It feels different now though, being the actor as opposed to the reactor. Stiles never wants to go back to that feeling of waiting for the next horror to happen.

 

It’s much easier now to be the horror.

 

* * *

 

Hour 1900

Pistols polished, locked and loaded. Notes, re-examined. Run through of tonight’s schedule, completed.

Stiles actually repeats his routine twice, just to avoid the next step, but it’s going to have to come anyway. He walks to the bathroom like it’s death row, slouched shoulders and hung head. He hates this part. He avoids it as much as possible, turning his head as he enters so he doesn’t have to look just yet. Instead, he hops in the shower, scrubbing his skin down until it’s bright and burning.

...Waits some more.

Finally, he steps out to towel down and with a resigned sigh, sneaks a peek under the wet spikes of his lashes to observe his reflection.

“Lookin’ good, killer,” he mutters to the mirror before blanching at the words. “Woooow, buddy. Bad call on the phrasing, there. Bad, bad call. Remember to never crack a joke again, Stiles. Okay? Okay. Noted.”

He leans forward, inching closer to his reflection, inspecting the patchwork beard on his chin. It looks like absolute garbage. He hasn’t shaved since the night of the Valkyries. Vaguely, he remembers coming home in a stupor, crashing right onto his bed and not getting up for two days. The blood on him had actually seeped into the mattress. He had had to burn his bedsheets and buy new ones.

He looks tired, eyes dull and hair flat against his forehead. It’s getting too long. He’s going to have to rectify that as well. He runs a hand through his shaggy locks, pushing them back and away. The movement brings a memory to the surface; him at fifteen, unable to do anything to his hair but viciously scrub at his scalp with his palms, buzzcut brutally cropped. It feels like an entire lifetime ago.

He thinks he looks the same, save for the faint scar on his jaw (alpha), and one that cuts through the outer corner of his eyebrow (hired hitman). He’d been pissed. It had taken months to grow the rest of his eyebrow back. And so what if his eyes look tired? And so what if maybe his cheeks had gotten a little more hollow? Despite his trepidation, there is no tattoo labeling him a ‘MURDERER,’ on his forehead. As long as his eyes look dull, not empty, he can survive with that.

He gives himself a halfhearted haircut. It’s not his best, but if he styles his hair right tonight, he can get away with it. The beard comes off next.

“Hey stranger,” he greets his now smoother image with a rasp. “You are the CEO of a small but incredibly profitable start-up company specializing in investment and money management. It’s incredibly pretentious. _You_ are incredibly pretentious. Maybe you should have a pretentious name? Chester? Carter? God, there’s nothing more pretentious sounding than the name ‘Carter.’”

He leans forward, closing the distance between his hips and the sink.

“Evening, madame. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Blah-Blah Whoeverthefuck. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” Stiles says, testing out a jolly chuckle. “Oho, Chap. Very good, very good.”

More staring.  

“On second thought, Stiles...maybe you should keep your mouth shut tonight.”

His lips curve up. He was always more of a ‘behind-the-scenes’ schemer anyway.

With a jolt, he realizes his eyes look different. There is a light behind them. Here, in his Bathroom of Solitude, cracking terrible jokes with shorter hair and beardless cheeks, he really does look young again.

He looks like summer nights. Salty perspiration on his tongue as he sprints across a lacrosse field. Like warm beer in the basement of Danny’s parent’s house. Like his reflection in the glass door outside the Principal’s office.

He looks like the boy she loved; kissing and making promises to each other under a full moon.

Stiles panics, and just like that, the light in his eyes is snuffed out. He stumbles away from the mirror, heart pounding and body soaked in a cold sweat.

 

* * *

 

 

Hour 2000

His suit is crisp, his hair is appropriate, he’s even lightly applied cologne. Stiles pauses to press a palm across his rib cage, feeling for the gun holstered beneath his heart. He moves to his hip, another, a six-round cylinder Smith & Wesson Revolver. Loaded with .45 Colt shells, and carrying the weight of only six chances. Stiles’ hand trembles when it finally reaches his ankle. SIG Sauer P320. His personal favorite semiautomatic. It also happened to be the first gun he ever owned.

It was a full year after he left Beacon Hills when he acquired the gun. Up until that point, Stiles had used his mind to survive; to destroy. Traps, pack member manipulation, various knowledge of druid plant poisoning...all were part of his personal arsenal.

He avoided using his baseball bat until dire measures called for savage consequences. He remembers the night the gun came into his possession; remembers the sound his bat made when it clattered to the concrete with a hollow reverberation, blood and brain matter splattering his sneakers. Stiles bent down to pick up the matte black gun lying beside a motionless omega, gurgling feebly.

He remembers being breathless, panting heavily into the thick summer night when his fingers touched the sleek weapon. It was a burden in his palm; deadly, a snake about to strike. There were two bullets that remained in the cartridge, the rest emptied into the open air, only one finding it’s target in the flesh of Stiles’ searing shoulder. The omega hadn’t been a natural killer. There had been a point in time where Stiles wouldn’t have considered himself to be either.

He justified his actions with the druid ideals of maintaining balance, old history lessons of risk and reward. Stiles justified his actions by measuring the end results as greater than the means to get there. Up until then, he had stayed away from guns and other objects that would solidify his position as a predator in this universe. He thinks maybe a part of him knew that once he went there, there would be no return. But when the omega finally managed the word ‘please’ through thick-tongued gore, Stiles loaded the cartridge once more, aiming the same gun that had been directed at him earlier that night to what remained of the omega’s head.

‘Please’ had been his mother’s last words as she begged for them to let her go. They couldn’t though. She had stuck around, comatose for another week before slipping away silently. ‘Please’ was such a simple word with so much weight. Without knowing its purpose, a gun was just an object. Without Scott, without _her_ , Stiles was just another cog in the wheel.

He doesn’t say please anymore.

Stiles lets the ironed fabric of his pant leg fall back in place, concealing the weapon once more. He surveys the apartment for the last time, taking in The Wall, the endless strings that bind him to this place and these people, most having no knowledge of his existence.

Somewhere in this room, there are letters. Someone would find them, eventually, if he were to never return. Their names aren’t on them, just in case they fall into the wrong hands. Their previous association with him years ago could manifest into a grim situation. But they are written in a way that, should they fall into the right hands, they would find their appropriate owners. It’s one of the only comforting thoughts he can muster at this moment.

Maybe it would give them solace, to finally have answers after all these years. Maybe not.

He turns away, swiping a book and keys off the counter. He doesn’t stop to glance over his shoulder. He just shuts the door quietly behind him.

  


* * *

 

 

Halfway to the party, it begins to rain. Stiles is cocooned in the sleekness of his car, traffic lights illuminating the dark interior in shades of red and green. He thumbs through the book of flowers on every red light. She probably knows the scientific names for half the plants, and she _definitely_ knows their meanings. She would have looked them up if there was any room for doubt.

The hardest part wasn’t learning the complex components of the flowers. The hardest part was trying to pin down exactly what it was that he was feeling. Once he accomplished that, the flowers would communicate it better than he ever could. Feelings, at least those more in depth than loneliness and anxiety, are few and far between these days. Rage occasionally rears its ugly head from time to time, followed by a darkness that lasts and lasts and lasts. Emptiness is an always. Regret even peeps in once in a blue moon. Usually when it’s four in the morning and he’s still staring at his ceiling.

So many times he’s wanted to return, to explain, to apologize. He used to fantasize that she would forgive him.

It was painful. He doesn’t fantasize anymore.

But he still has this habit, the flowers. And he still bites his thumb when he’s nervous. And she’s still in his heart and in his mind, bringing the most complex emotions he can muster at this point in his life.

Some habits die hard.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, he approaches the manor, looming in all its opulent glory. Stiles pulls his car up to his contact at the party, a valet who knows too much about the man for whom he works, and hands his keys off to the man, feeling a little fumbly.

He’s been to parties like this before, but he’s never had to blend in as one of the wealthy.

Stiles has done his research. He knows which fork is the salad fork, what spoon to use for soup. He learned to waltz, and how to properly pronounce ‘Foie Gras.’ But there’s an itching feeling on the back of his neck when he walks around the back of the mansion and habitually slips his way in through the back, winding his way through the kitchen (none of the wait staff even spare a glance at his suit or at him for that matter), and into the grand ballroom. Stiles doesn’t quite feel prepared enough.

Will they smell the fraud on him? With a pang in his stomach, he remembers sitting on the exposed-stuffing, plaid couch of his childhood home with his father, greasy bags of McDonald's between them. Eating with their hands, laughing easily with their mouths full, low-brow comedy on the television.

“Sir,” a waiter approaches him with an easy smile, effectively removing Stiles from his reverie. “Champagne?”

Stiles clears his throat, taking a second to blink away the wetness in his eyes to grasp the slender flute of alcohol with a nod.

The waiter smiles again, and retreats with a flourish.

Stiles downs the glass, (his only one, he reminds himself. He must keep his mind sharp for tonight), and surveys the open hall. The ceiling arcs and stretches like a cathedral, windows exposing the night sky. Golden chandeliers drip from above, christline and pristine. There’s a small orchestra playing something vaguely Baroque in the corner, and aging socialites and balding CEO’s murmur to one another with glazed eyes.

Stiles looks down at his polished Italian leather shoes and at his well fitting suit, measured specifically to his body. His white shirt is starched and stiff as a board, cufflinks gleaming in the golden glow. Still, he is an outsider. There is a clear separation between him and the blue bloods, as if a glass wall parts them. As if Stiles could lean in close, and watch his breath fog up the open air.

He could delude himself into thinking it’s just because the atmosphere is too rich for his working-class blood, but that wouldn’t quite be truthful. There has always been that glass wall of separation, ever since he left. He and them. Stiles and the rest of the world. Those who could fall asleep at night, and he, who could not.

He presses into the crowd, arranging his features into a bored expression. The key is to blend. The Collector won’t be at this party, but the minions should be. If Stiles is lucky, they will be high ranking, and their deaths will be more than a disruption for the operation. He has over sixty rounds on him, total. Enough to pack a punch, but not enough to comfortably take out the entire room. He will spare one, of course, for questioning. The ropes and duct tape in his trunk are itching to be used. And once he gets the information he needs, they will lead him right to The Collect--

“Hey there,” a husky voice interrupts his train of thought, whispering into his ear. Stiles jumps wildly into the air. Years of stealth, training, and ass-kicking, yet his body still betrays him by doing stupid shit. The owner of the voice lets out a tinkering laugh at his gangly limbs, and he turns to the blonde bombshell by his arm.

“Twitchy thing, you.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Stiles laughs easily, “I might have had a few espressos this morning.”

The beautiful woman rolls her eyes in camaraderie. “Oh my god, I know, right? Anything to get through this dull evening. Daddy practically forced me to come here, but he did promise that it wouldn’t be all fat businessmen.” She scans his figure up and down appreciatively. “Looks like he was right.”

Stiles smirks, offering his elbow to her. It’s risky, being seen with her, but it’s also risky to be the lone figure in a party.

She gives him a Cheshire Cat smile, leading him through the open doors to the dance floor on the outside patio, lit by the sun that is just beginning to set. Stiles puts one hand on her slim waist, the other cupping her manicured hand. She’s over perfumed, the scent of faux flowers invading his senses, but her body is incredible, draped in glittering red jewels.

“What’s your name?” She says, breath tickling his ear.

“Brad,” he smiles warmly down at her. “Yours?”

“Tiffany. Tiffany Calloway. You might have heard of me?” She says confidently, uncaring about the pretentiousness of her words.

Stiles had in fact heard of Tiffany. Her father was a sponsor for the pharmaceutical company The Collector owned.

“Pleasure to meet you, Tiffany.” Stiles leans forward, allowing his lips to scrape over the shell of her ear. He feels her shiver before pulling back.

 _Cat and mouse_.

Tiffany’s eyes have blown wide looking at him, but they’re still not big enough. Her lashes aren’t long enough. Eyes brown, not green. She is flawless in every sense of the word, and it is _not enough._

The lilting music of the strings swell and Tiffany presses in tight to his torso. It allows Stiles to learn her breasts are fake.

_Get to her father. Get to her father and you’ll get information. Get information and she’ll be safe._

Stiles lets his head swivel around when Tiffany lays hers on his chest, surveying the patio. His anonymity is an asset. They don’t know his face, though he knows theirs. He only has a limited time for this advantage, however. His anonymity will vanish once he actively starts picking off The Collector’s inner circle.

He will need a hostage, this much is certain. He’ll also need to leave no survivors. Tiffany’s dad may or may not be alive by the end of the next few weeks. Either way, her life will be uprooted; the company her father endorses, obliterated. The man she is currently trying to woo-- this _Brad_ \--is going to ruin her life. And she has no idea, happily dancing with eyes closed. Blissful in her ignorance.

Stiles should be used to hurting pretty girls by now, but there’s still a sting.

He pulls away, clearing his throat innocuously. “Tiffany, darling, is your father here tonight?”

He means to say it casually, lightly. She’s probably used to handsome young men trying to meet her father to get in his good graces. But Stiles doesn’t want to get in his good graces. Stiles wants to break his nose.

Tiffany, for her part, takes the bait with a grin. He grins back, just as easy, just as wide. She turns, pulling him through the throng of stale investors when he feels her.

He doesn’t know how it’s scientifically possible to feel her, even after all these years, even before his eyes land on her. But he does. He feels squeezed in all directions, motionless in the immensity of this moment. Completely and utterly overcome; the same way he always feels when she enters a room, like he will never be able to get a good breath in again.

And then his eyes find her. They zoom right to her, his heart leading the way. She’s already looking at him, of course, and they hold each other’s gaze in a moment that feels so weighted he’s positive there is no music playing, and everyone around him has stopped dancing; stopped breathing even. He certainly isn’t.

 _‘She’s wearing white, she’s wearing white,’_ his mind loops continuously, though he doesn’t understand why that is.

Brazenly, Tiffany jerks at his hand, laughing and encouraging him to ‘ _come on, silly_ .’ It does feel silly. He wants to laugh in disbelief. He wants to cry. He wants to rush at her and never, _never_ let go again. A smaller part wants to run and hide.

But above his disbelief, the black comedy of the moment, even above the furious pounding of his own heart-- Stiles wants to get her **_the fuck_ ** out.

He wrenches his wrist from Tiffany’s grasp, vaguely registering her simpering whine, and takes off like a rocket through the crowd to her.

She watches him approach her with a hard look in her eyes until he’s hovering over her, her neck craned to keep eye contact.

He allows himself to breathe her in for the first time in years; Just a second, just a mere moment before hissing, “What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Lydia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Rachel and I are absolutely floored at the response this story is getting. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to be a part of this narrative which was conceived and cultivated for months in the making. So if you're currently enjoying this, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and a big, warm, bear hug to our beta's @wellsjahasghost (Jade of LaughingSenselessly), and @madgrad2011 (Rachel). I am so grateful for your time and effort. Your extra eyes have been invaluable, and Rachel and I just admire the both of you endlessly. 
> 
> Much love to you all. 
> 
> You can find me, Maggie, at redstringbanshee.tumblr.com


	4. Begonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begonia, or Begoniaceae
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings about misfortune, dark thoughts, caution about a new situation.

The hand that is holding Lydia's lipstick is shaking slightly as she moves it over her lips.

She'd like to be able to blame it on Scott, who is driving their small car around several tight corners, but his form is admirable. He's concentrating hard on moving smoothly, so Lydia knows for a fact that this isn't on him. It's not Scott's fault at all. This, unfortunately, is about Stiles.

A girl who has gotten over a boy does not _shake_ when she's putting on lipstick, even knowing that he's going to be seeing her wearing said lipstick. And Lydia is marrying another man. She should not be shaking at the idea of seeing Stiles for the first time in six years.

"Do you need me to slow down?" Scott asks, noticing Lydia steadying herself as she makes another go at the lipstick.

"Of course not," she replies, plastering a fake smile onto her face. "I'm an expert at this, don't worry about me."

An expert at putting on makeup. Also an expert at shutting down her feelings and squashing them with the heels of the Louis Vuitton stilettos that Carter bought her. _Not_ an expert on feeling nothing for Stiles Stilinski.

Lydia wonders how Scott feels about this. If he is _half_ as scared as she is. She wants to ask him, because he could be feeling so many things right now and Lydia hasn't spoken to him about any of them. But she isn't sure if she could handle it right now. As it is, she's deeply regretting not taking a few nips from the minibar in their hotel room before they left.

"I think we're almost there," Scott says, gesturing towards his GPS.

"And you're sure your friend put you on the list?" Lydia confirms, flipping up the mirror and looking over at Scott.

"Yeah," he says, sliding one shoulder up. "I have the information he needs about Kanima venom, so if we don't get in, he doesn't get it."

"Good," Lydia says curtly. "Because I am _not_ sneaking in through a service entrance in this dress."

It doesn't become necessary, luckily. She and Scott stroll through security, and as they are lead down a long marble hallway to an expansive patio, Lydia tucks her hand into his arm, steeling herself against the idea of who Stiles could be.

Scott, Lydia knows, is afraid of seeing someone who is lost to them. He has been holding out hope for so many years, but Lydia thinks that it might have been completely dashed when the word "bloodbath" suddenly became associated with Stiles. Lydia, on the other hand, isn't afraid of that Stiles. A Stiles who isn't Stiles anymore is exactly what she is going to need to be able to give Carter her yes and move on with her life. The Stiles that Lydia is afraid of is one who is still the man she fell in love with. The one who looks like the boy who had put his hand on her cheek and told her to shut up and let him save her life. The one who didn't realize that he'd already saved her countless times, just by unwinding her the way he did.

She hopes he's a demon, if only because then she can finally stop clinging on to his ghost.

This party is opulence at its best. Lydia tugs Scott up to the bar immediately, ordering white wine spritzers for both of them. His won't have much of an effect on him, but Lydia's will, and she clutches onto the glass tightly as the two of them meander over to a pillar wrapped in ivy.

"You okay?" she whispers to him, because it's now or never. He is stiff next to her, the outfit that she had picked out for him crisp and well-fitted. If this were a normal party, she'd be shoving him at rich heiresses and trying to get him to see that he doesn't deserve to be alone. If this were a normal Saturday, she would be wiggling her chopsticks towards his lo mein and demanding a bite.

But there's nothing normal about this. And Stiles is the _one_ thing that has the power to corrupt this easy friendship that they have together. He's the one with the ability to break that bond, because missing him is what forged that bond in the first place.

"That's my line," Scott says, joking, but Lydia shakes her head seriously.

"I get to say it back sometimes," she says, and the smile slides off of his face slightly.

"Thank you."

She pats him on the arm, then looks out over the patio, where groups of people are milling about pleasantly, lit by the sun that is setting over the beige wall which encloses them all together.

"Are you sure he's even going to be here, Scott?"

"My contact?" he asks, frowning.

"No." Lydia shakes her head. "Stiles."

She hates saying his name. Hates it, hates it, hates it.

"Oh." Scott shifts uncomfortably. "There's people tracking him. I got confirmation that he's in town a few hours ago."

"So we're really going to see him."

She wishes she didn't sound so _shaken_ , but Scott doesn't call her out on it.

"Yeah," he says. "We are." There's a long pause. Then: "You gonna tell him you're engaged?"

Her eyes cut over to him, slitted.

"Do I owe him that?"

Scott looks at the ground.

"I guess not."

She squeezes his arm.

"He's the one who walked, Scott," Lydia says, her voice filled with petty humor. She takes a sip from her glass. "It's on him."

"I know," he says gently. "But he still sends you flowers."

"And?"

"And if you tell him you're engaged, he might stop."

"Stop loving me?"

Scott's lips quirk up at the corners.

"Stop sending them," he replies slowly.

Lydia should be in her element. She is wearing a light, floor-length white dress with delicate spaghetti straps that crisscross down her back. Her hair has been curled in loose waves that she has been continuously finger-combing throughout the night. She's got on her favorite lipstick and her most expensive pair of heels. And still, when Scott says that, she feels the least comfortable that she has ever felt in her life.

She is unsettled by the idea that there is a future in which Stiles stops sending her flowers. For years now, she has been wanting them to stop appearing on her doorstep. Before that, she had wished for _one_ thing to let her know that he's alive. But now that she knows, she'd rather he leave her alone.

Except the idea of Stiles leaving her alone is the most lonely thing Lydia has ever considered.

Her drink is empty.

"That's him," Scott says suddenly, drawing in a breath, and Lydia's stomach lurches. She thinks she's going to vomit. She thinks she's about to run. Scott's hand tightens on her elbow. "My contact. He's over there."

Quickly, she settles. "We have to go give him the paperwork."

"You should stay here," Scott says, untucking her hand from his arm. "If I come with backup, I think I'll make him nervous."

"Alright," she agrees. "I'll be here."

Right here. Waiting for her inevitable doom.

Lydia nabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and wonders if the food is anything to brag about. She's been to parties like this before— it's either they're insanely decadent, or the host is depending on the alcohol to make everything taste better.

Scott has vanished into the crowd, so Lydia lingers at the edge, her finger rubbing absently across the lip of her glass as she sorts through the people, shoving them into different categories— 'married into it,' 'worked to get here,' 'born into it,' and 'date who is extremely uncomfortable in the current environment.' She's content, doing her sweep as the sun gets lower in the sky, until suddenly her eyes land on someone who makes her stomach lurch without even realizing exactly who it is.

Her eyes flick back.

And that's him. That's Stiles.

He isn't looking at her— not at first. She has a moment to catch her breath and allow herself to rake her eyes up and down his body. Lydia isn't sure exactly what she had been expecting, but it wasn't a clean shaven, lean man who looks exactly like the boy who had forced her to take the rainflowers from him six years ago.

He swings around, looking across the crowd with purpose, and her heart flies into her throat when he finally catches sight of her. He seems like he was _looking_ for her. For a moment, his eyes go peaceful, and her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.

Stiles isn't a demon. She's just as much his ghost as he is hers.

But then a determined look crosses his face, and he begins to stride towards her with anger in his stance, and that's when Lydia remembers: He might not be _her_ monster. But he is one to other people.

The feeling of hopelessness that she had felt, watching him drive away from her in the rain, is enough to make Lydia grit herself against the hold that Stiles has over her. She thinks of him handing the rainflowers to her, thinks of him slaughtering Valkyries, and she shuts it down again. Her entire body locks as she glares at him as he approaches quickly and steadily, grasping her wrist and tucking his body into hers until his voice is right near her ear.

For a moment, she stiffens in shock at the warm, comfortable feeling of Stiles touching her skin for the first time in six years. It has been six years since his fingers wrapped around her wrist, since his lips touched her neck, since his eyes had stared into hers. And it feels like the most colossal thing Lydia has ever experienced— this longing. This anger. This _spark_.

He lights her on fire in the best ways possible, but he also singes her. And that's what forces Lydia to swallow terror down into her stomach and ignore the way her heart feels like it's beating more lightly now that his body has found hers again.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Lydia?"

From the outside, she thinks it might look like he's murmuring something sweet to her. That image alone is enough to make Lydia want to stomp on his foot, just to stop him from invading her any more than he already has. He is _everywhere_ , every day. He can't have this too. He can't have closeness.

She narrows her eyes and tilts her chin defiantly towards him.

"Interesting to see you walking towards me instead of away."

Stiles' eyes harden.

"Lydia, you have to get _out_ of here."

"Hmmm," she says, tugging her chin back slightly. "Let me think about that for just a— oh. No."

"Lydia!" He growls it, moving back so that he can look at her. "Lydia, you have to get out of here before they—"

"Before they what?" she inquires rhetorically. "Tell me about the dozens of people you've murdered in cold blood?" His face contorts in shock. "Mhmm." She tilts her head to the side. "They already told me."

He blinks rapidly at her for a moment, seeming to be trying to recover himself, then grabs her by the arm, beginning to tug her down a stone pathway lined with flowers. She wants to call for Scott, but it would be too loud, and too hysterical, and it might disrupt the meeting that Scott is having with his contact. So Lydia swallows down her words and follows Stiles, her throat thick with anger, her stomach tingling with anxiety.

Almost absently, Stiles' hand slides from her wrist to entangle his fingers with hers, and when she looks up, she sees that he is peering into the glass doors of the house, trying to see if the adjacent corridor is empty.

It would be easy to run. But she doesn't.

Stiles Stilinski may be a cold blooded killer, but he'd never kill her. Not when his thumb is sweeping across the most sensitive part of her palm in an almost absent manner as he wrenches open a door and pulls her into a long, empty hallway. He lets go of her hand and begins walking, but Lydia stops and stamps her foot.

He turns around.

"Are you coming?"

She quirks an eyebrow.

"Where?"

"I'm getting you out of here."

"Still a no," she points out, crossing her arms over her chest.

Stiles locks his jaw and walks up to her with two clomps of his feet. He looks down, his eyes cold.

"Are you coming with me, Lydia? Or am I going to have to fucking carry you?"

She takes two steps backwards despite herself, and for a moment, she sees regret flash through his eyes before he shakes his head against it.

"What are you _doing,_ Stiles?" she asks, voice the lethal brand of soft.

"Protecting you!" he bursts out. "Lydia, come on. Come on, you _have_ to get out of here."

" _Why_?" she asks, now frustrated. "Because you never wanted to see me again?"

"Because _you're the one they're after_!" he shouts.

Okay. Not the answer she was expecting, to be perfectly honest.

He pivots away from her, his hands finding his hair and tugging hard as he paces agitatedly.

"What."

"It's you," Stiles says, voice ragged. "I'm here because they're going after you, and I'm trying to figure out how to st—" He stops talking, looking around, eyes wild and animalistic.

"Wh—?" Lydia starts to say again, but he lurches forward and places a hand over her mouth, stopping her from speaking.

"Shut up," he mutters. "Gotta listen." He lets his eyes drift towards her face as he listens for sounds, his eyes zeroing in on hers. She wonders if she looks as frightened as she is. She wonders if she looks as _angry_.

Stiles lowers his hand, looking guilty for the first time.

"Was that entirely necessary?"

He lets out a small laugh.

"Fuck. You have _no_ idea what you just walked into, do you?"

"We're here for you."

"We?"

Oops. Probably the wrong word choice.

"Scott."

His eyes hood in shock for a moment before he widens them again, stumbling back towards the wall.

"Oh. My god."

"We just came to talk to you," Lydia says, heels clacking against the floor as she steps purposefully towards him. "To tell you to stop doing this. Stop _murdering_ people."

"I'm not murdering people," he refutes, his hands bracing himself against the wall. "I'm murdering murderers."

Something inside of her stills as she looks at him, eyes wide and earnest as he stares down at her, trying to get her to see. Lydia frowns, blinking up at him for a few moments until a small smile starts to curve across her lips. She shakes her head, slowly, emphatically clapping for him. The honesty slides out of Stiles' eyes, and they turn to stone as he watches her, devouring the sight of her face despite the fact that she is currently mocking him.

"Oh my god," she says. "Stiles Stilinski, how could I forget that you are _God himself_?"

He rolls his eyes and she continues to clap for him, throwing her head back slightly.

"Oh, fuck you, Lydia."

"No, I mean, wow. Thank you, Stiles, because that is the best laugh I have had in weeks."

His lips quirk up into a smile.

"Yeah? Seems like you haven't been laughing very hard lately. That one was a four at best."

He would know. He's seen her at her ten.

Lydia stops clapping.

"Can you go more than sixty seconds without being a smartass?"

He tilts his head.

"Can _you_ go more than sixty seconds without mentioning my ass?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it. He's grinning, and she's attempting to come up with some sort of witty response that will knock him off his feet, but instead, what she gets is a gunshot ringing out way too close to her head.

Stiles jerks up, automatically looking around for the person responsible for the gunfire. His eyes zone in on something that Lydia can't see, behind her in the hallway.

"Lydia, _run_ ," he commands, reaching around the back of his tux and pulling a gun out of his waistband. She looks behind herself to see a man advancing on them, his eyes determined. Stiles steps in front of her, shooing her behind him, and begins firing rapidly at the man. Lydia hears a yell that lets her know that he hit his target, and only takes one moment to stop in shock before Stiles is grabbing her wrist and bolting down the hallway.

"Who was _that_?" she demands, still reeling from the fact that _Stiles Stilinski_ had just shot someone. Stiles. Who, six years ago, hadn't been able to hold a gun without Scott or his dad tenderly removing it from his hand. Stiles, who had _left her_ specifically because he had killed someone. He just did it again without batting an eyelash, and suddenly she feels scared for him more than she feels scared for herself.

She had known he was far gone. But seeing it? God. Seeing it is another whole thing.

Stiles just shakes his head at her question and keeps running.

"He was trying to kill me."

"Because you kill other people?"

"No."

"Then _why_?"

"Because I'm with you."

Stiles stops abruptly, then stares at a door at the side of the hallway. He examines the card reader on it briefly before he tugs a card out of his pocket and presses it against the reader. The door clicks open, and Stiles drags Lydia inside, slamming it shut.

"Look around for another way out," he instructs, immediately walking over to the bookshelf and beginning to remove books. "This guy is fucking _insane_ , there's secret passages all over the mansion."

It takes a moment for Lydia's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. It looks like an office— probably one of many, given the size of the house— that is covered from top to bottom in heavy books, spread across deep mahogany bookshelves. She wants to sit down in the heavy velvet, dark green chair and force Stiles onto the smaller one across the desk and make him _talk to her_. But he's currently scrambling to find some sort of hidden passageway by lifting things that are placed on top of the desk and looking wildly around to see if anything moves.

Idiot.

"You're really expecting to find a secret passageway in here?" Lydia asks from over at the door, her hands on her hips as she looks around the room.

"I gotta get you out," he says. "I'm open to better suggestions." He walks over to the window and peers out. "And don't suggest the window, 'cause that's a no-go."

A shout echoes down the hallway. Lydia's stomach clenches in alarm.

"Stiles."

"Tug out all the books on the shelves and maybe one will eventually open a door?"

"Stiles."

"I know, I know there's a shit-ton, okay, but we can't—"

" _Stiles_ ," she shrieks, and that's when another gunshot sounds in the air.

He dives for her immediately, covering her body with his as he physically forces her behind the shelter of the desk.

"Shit, shit, shit," Stiles says as more guns begin to fire, a few crashing through the window and breaking the glass. He stretches over the desk and fires several shots at the doorway, then hunkers back down to reload his gun. "Okay, new plan. We have to get out of here."

"How is that different from the old plan?"

"The old plan didn't work. This one's going to work."

He shoves her forcefully down as he goes back up to fire some more shots, then reaches down with his hand to apologetically brush his fingers over the spot he had pushed. Another shot rings through the room and he straightens up again, firing over and over in rapid succession. Lydia closes her eyes and puts her hands over her ears, trying to ignore the screams that she can hear in the noise from the bullets. She wants to scream for the men that Stiles is killing, but she holds herself back. Lydia trusts Stiles, somewhere in her gut, and she knows that he wouldn't lie about people going after her.

They don't deserve her screams. Not these men.

"You okay?" Stiles shouts over the gunfire. She screws up her eyes and nods, hoping he can see her. "It's almost over," he promises, reloading. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He murmurs the words over and over again. Lydia focuses on his voice— clutches onto it desperately. _Stiles_ , she thinks, feeling weary and woozy. She's glad she's on the floor because screams are coming at her from every single direction and all she can do is make sure none of them are for Stiles. None of them can be for Stiles. They can't be.

Her hands are pried off of her ears by calloused fingers, tenderly detangling Lydia from her own head.

"Stiles?" she mumbles.

"Hey, Lyds," he says, his voice gentle. "I'm sorry, but you gotta get up now. You gotta run with me. Can you do that?" She nods, feeling trapped in her own head, and leans heavily on Stiles, her lashes fluttering closed when she stumbles once she's upright. He catches her. "God, I'm sorry, Lydia, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." His fingers stroke her cheeks urgently, the thumbs gently caressing her skin, and Lydia leans into his touch, lost to anything else. "Lydia, come on. Come back to me. We gotta move. Come back to me, Lyds." She feels lips press against her forehead, and then, suddenly, "Hey. Did you get my forget-me-nots?"

Oh. Stiles.

Not her Stiles.

This Stiles.

She shoves him away, and when she blinks her eyes back into focus, he's smirking, but his eyes look almost wet, as though this moment is just as emotional for him as it is for her. As though he is just as entangled in her head as Lydia is; experiencing her pain with her, experiencing the horror with her, experiencing the loss with her.

Their loss.

"Fuck off, Stiles."

"Hey. There she is."

She's still a little woozy as she says, "did you say we have to run?"

His eyes darken slightly.

"Yeah. Yeah, follow me."

They've only been running for two minutes when more gunshots fire through the air.

"How many men does this guy have?" Lydia asks angrily as they round a corner.

"About eight billion," Stiles responds drily. "Thanks for asking."

Lydia groans.

"Do you even know where you're going?"

"No, I'm just running for the hell of it," he says sarcastically, pulling her against a wall as a man shoots at them. Stiles shoots, and the man falls down. "Score."

Lydia doesn't realize that he's leading her to the entrance until Stiles tugs her through hordes of people and away from the party. It occurs to her to wonder if any of them got hurt. It occurs to her to wonder if _Scott_ got hurt.

"Stiles," she says, now breathing heavily from all the running. "We need to find Scott."

"Nope," he replies. "We need to get you out of here."

"What?" she exclaims. "Why?"

She stops running. He tugs on her hand. She doesn't move.

"Lydia," Stiles hisses. "I swear to god, do not test me, I will tranq you."

The sky seems like a fantastic place to gather strength from. The sun had begun to set while they were inside, and now it is comfortably dark outside, with streaks of well-worn jeans blue trailing across the darker pieces of sky. Unfortunately, the sky does not give her answers as to why Stiles is a giant pain in her ass, and when she looks back at him, the desperate look in his eyes isn't helping either.

Despite herself, she starts to run again.

"Can you at least _explain_ to me why this is happening?" she questions, panting.

"Sure," he agrees amiably. "As soon as we lose the guys that are attempting to sneak up behind us and kill me right now."

"Fuck," Lydia replies, going faster as she sees them over her shoulder, and the two of them narrowly shake those men as they finally hit the exit gate and find the valets, Stiles occasionally shooting as he runs.

The party isn't over, so the area is mostly empty. Stiles deposits Lydia into some bushes— seriously, she's going to kill him— and dashes up to someone and begins talking loudly and emphatically until the guy leaves quickly, breaking into a run once he is far away enough for it to not arouse suspicion. Stiles returns to Lydia, grabs her arm, and pulls her out of the bushes, looking around with his hand on his gun.

"Do you hear that?" he asks suddenly. "Someone's, like, sprinting towards us."

He starts to shove Lydia back to the bushes again, but she stands her ground, relief breaking out in her body as she sees the figure that is streaming at them.

"Scott," she says. "Thank god. It's Scott."

Their best friend is going far too fast to be human, but he slows down when he gets close.

"Stiles," he calls. "What's going on? What's happening?"

Lydia crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows at Stiles as if to say 'yeah, go ahead.' He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair.

"Hiya, Scotty," he says, his voice thick and weak. He's struggling to make eye contact until suddenly Scott breaks out into a smile, cheeks dimpling.

"Hey."

The three of them turn simultaneously as a yell breaks out at the top of the hill.

"Shit, shit, shit," Stiles curses, slamming his palm against his fist at each curse. "Scott, do you trust me?"

Lydia can see the reluctance in Scott's eyes.

"I used to."

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes out.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. But, Scott, I'm gonna need you to trust me right now."

The valet pulls up Stiles' car, but he doesn't move. Instead, he stares at Scott, his eyes pleading with him.

"Trust you about what?" asks Scott slowly.

"I need you to let me take Lydia."

"No," Scott and Lydia say immediately.

"You're not _touching_ me," Lydia continues, jerking away from him and shifting to stand on Scott's side. The valet tosses Stiles his keys. Stiles catches them without looking away from Scott.

"They're going after _her,_ Scott. They want her. And I can't explain any more right now, but you have to let me take her. Now that they know how to track her, they're going to do whatever they can to get her. And I can't… I can't let that happen. You have to let me take her." His voice breaks. "Please."

"I don't know," Scott says uncertainly.

"Scott, please. You know me."

"You've killed—"

Stiles winces.

"I _know_ what I've done. But it's _Lydia_." Panic rises in Lydia as she sees Scott's eyes softening slightly, his stance relaxing. "That's like the one girl I ever… Scott, she's the one girl I've ever fallen in love with. You know I wouldn't hurt her." Scott closes his eyes. "You know this is important, or else I wouldn't ask."

The shouting is getting louder. Lydia can see Stiles wringing his hands together and knows that he's getting antsier.

Scott opens his eyes.

"Take care of her, Stiles."

"I will. Of course I will." Stiles says.

Scott nods gratefully, resigned.

"I know you will."

For a moment, something passes between the two of them that makes the anxiety ramp up in Lydia. He can't mean— Scott can't _possibly_ mean— he wouldn't leave her with _Stiles_. He wouldn't.

"Delay them?"

"Yeah," Scott agrees.

"Good luck," Stiles says, nodding.

Scott presses a kiss against Lydia's forehead, then sprints off into the night, leaving her with Stiles.

"I'm not going with you," she says instantly.

"That's cute," he replies. "Get in the car."

"No," Lydia argues.

He sighs heavily.

"You realize that these men are going to be down that hill in a few moments, and they're going to be going after _you_?"

She squares her jaw.

"I'd rather—"

"Don't even finish that goddamn sentence, Lydia." She snaps her mouth shut. "Get in the car."

"No."

He sighs, reaching into his jacket pocket for another weapon.

"Lyds. Get in the car."

The mouth of the gun presses against her neck. Lydia swallows.

"Tranq gun?"

He licks his bottom lip and nods.

"Fine," she says shortly. "Do it. Because that is the only way I am going to get into the car with a piece of shit like—"

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up with her head pressed against the window, hitting it as the car speeds over a bump.

It's a small car, with a dark leather interior, and it smells good. Like home, Lydia thinks in her foggy state. Not like the condo in which she lives, but like another home. One that feels like laughter breaking the calm of hazy summer evenings, and fingers combing through hair, and sheets sliding languidly down her ribcage.

Stiles.

There's a jacket wrapped around her shoulders and her heels aren't on her feet anymore. Lydia peeks one eye open to see Stiles munching happily on a burger, humming along to the radio as he drives with one hand.

"Are you kidding me," she says, her voice bleary. "You stopped for Burger King?"

"Don't insult me," he scoffs. "This is McDonalds."

Her eyes drift to the cup holder.

"Oh, god, and you're drinking coffee?"

"I can handle caffeine now," he says proudly.

"I'll believe that when I see it."

The song on the radio changes, and Stiles redirects his focus to the music drifting lazily from the speakers.

"Oh, fuck, I hate this song," he complains. "Way overplayed."

He goes to change it. Lydia slaps his hand away and turns up the volume, shrugging when Stiles looks over at her with horror on his face.

"I like it," she says loudly.

The mouth that she knows so well melts into a pout.

"Okay, I know I was a dick, but I think this torture is a little beyond what I deserve."

If he thinks this is the worst she has to offer, he has another thing coming.

For the rest of the ride, the two of them fight over the radio and don't say much of anything in between. Eventually, Stiles pulls into a large, dingy parking garage and slides into a spot. He kills the engine, then looks over at Lydia, probably wondering what to say to her. She meets his gaze silently, almost smiling when she sees him recoil a little at the anger in her eyes.

"You, um, ready to go in?"

She nods, unbuckling herself, and pulls his coat tighter around her body as she slips into the cool night air. Clutching her shoes in her hands, Lydia follows Stiles up the stairs, her heart heavy as she looks around the narrow, dimly lit hallways.

He unlocks his apartment door and holds it open for her, allowing Lydia to pad into the dark front room.

When Stiles flicks on the light, it turns out that it's not just a front room. It's an enormous, open space, covered in black couches and an entirely steel kitchen. She walks further in, looking around, until she notices the wall in front of the couches.

His mystery board.

But bigger.

Covered in papers, in disorganized chaos, in worries and paranoia and fear and loneliness.

She walks closer, captivated by the mess of it. Lydia drops her heels onto the floor as she gets closer, touching one of the papers that is quivering in the breeze of a few open windows in the loft.

"Seem familiar?" asks a hoarse voice behind her, and Lydia turns around to see Stiles standing directly in her space. Close. Too close. "You wanna talk about it, Lyds?"

She stiffens at the use of the nickname.

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

"Okay," he says softly. "Yeah, you can—"

"I'll take your bedroom," she says, hitting him with her shoulder as she brushes past him. She walks into the first open door she finds, looking around at the dark grey, almost purple, bed covers and the sparsely decorated room. No personal touches. No frivolity.

It's just empty.

"Sorry, let me just grab you some stuff to wear," Stiles says, squeezing past her into the room and heading towards his chest of drawers. She watches as he shuffles through his things, eyes on him as she unzips her dress and lets it fall to the floor.

For a moment, she sees his back go rigid. Then he straightens up, turns around, and meets her defiant gaze.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to be sleeping in your clothes, Stiles?"

His eyes sweep over her body, taking it in.

"I mean, it's kinda cold," he says, gaze on her breasts in their strapless bra. He flicks his eyes back up to hers, then lets them drift lazily back down to her chest. "And you seem like you might be uncomfortable."

There's a challenge in his eyes, which Lydia meets by reaching behind her back, unbuckling her bra, and letting it fall to the floor.

"Get out," she says harshly.

"Mhm," he says, grinning cheekily as he backs towards the door, hands up, eyes still on her breasts. He closes the door behind himself, and Lydia lets her body sag in relief for the first time that night. She's just turning around to walk over to his bed when there's a single knock at the door and it slides open again. "Oh, hey, Lydia?"

" _What_?" she snarls.

"I like your tattoo," he says.

For the first time, she feels bare. The need to cover herself consumes her, and she stares at him as her fingers trace over the spot of skin on her ribcage where a small arrow had been etched into her flesh. "I'm glad you finally did it."

She thinks about it, for just a moment.

" _We protect those who can't protect themselves."_

" _I don't murder people. I murder murderers."_

Lydia picks up her dress and throws it at Stiles, still standing in the doorway.

"Leave."

"Goodnight," he says, closing it again.

She thinks she liked him better when he was flowers and bitterness and a bad dream pressing its fingers against her mind.

Because this? This is too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited that you guys finally get this chapter! I had such an incredibly fun (and emotional) time writing it, and I hope you had a great time reading it too. Thank you to Jade and Rachel (wellsjahasghost and madgrad2011) for their careful beta reading and HILARIOUS comments on the google doc. I love you guys. 
> 
> And thanks to you guys, the fandom, for your comments. They've been making me and Maggie try to write faster so that we can bang out this story for you <3 Much love, 
> 
> -Rachel


	5. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavender, or Lavandula 
> 
>  
> 
> A new adventure. Distrust.

It’s the first time there is a beating heart that Stiles cares about in his apartment. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his palms into the skin and bone of his sockets until they burn.

 _Lydia-fucking-Martin_ is in his apartment. Lydia Martin, Lydia Martin, _Lydia Martin_. She is alive; tangible. So real he could reach out and touch her, and he had.

The brush of his fingertips against the softness of her skin was a shock to his system. His hands have not stopped trembling since they made contact.

He has wanted her ever since he can remember, but it’s one thing to want and another to need. Laying on the couch in his living room while she lays bare in the bed he’s spent years dreaming of her on, is actual torture. The meaningless sex, the sleepless nights, the too-few tears and the all encompassing emptiness, all in that bed and all beginning and ending with her. And now, here she is.

He is being torn apart. The desire to rush to her side, to bury his face in her neck and wrap his arms around her impossibly tiny torso rips his ribcage in two. The other piece of him, the stronger piece, resists the urge. It’s the piece that made him leave Beacon Hills, that makes him stay on the lumpy, sticky leather couch.

He left because he loves her, and he stays on the couch for that reason too. But it’s still not easy. He knows it never will be. He’s accepted this fact. But her presence is already changing the very fabric of the life he’s cultivated in these past few years alone, and though he’s always felt it, he finally allows the confession to surface. He breathes out harshly and concentrates on the beating heart that isn’t his.

“I’m so lonely,” he whispers into the dark. “I’ve been so lonely, Lydia.”

 

* * *

 

 

He makes breakfast with the company of Lydia’s dress. It’s an entity of it’s own, a weighty presence in the corner of his vision. He physically had to restrain himself from sniffing it last night.

 _That dress touched her skin_ , he thinks, and even he has to acknowledge it sounds completely unhinged. The gauzy fabric waves to him in the breeze of the ceiling fan, tauntingly.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too,” he mutters, flipping the french toast with a rather savage jerk of the pan.

“Fuck who?”

He whips around so fast his neck actually cracks. Lydia Martin is standing in the open space of his loft, bathed in delicate early morning sunlight, beautifully barefoot and gloriously naked.

“Really committed to not wearing my clothes, huh Lyds. You got a torture fetish now?”

Lydia cocks her head, strutting forward to the white gown Stiles had been glaring at all morning. 

“No,” she breathes pulling the fabric over her skin, back to him. “I think you cornered that market when you let me think you were dead for an entire year.”

It hits so hard and so low he’s left breathless.

“Lydia,” he whispers.

“No,” she barks, and her voice cracks in the empty space between them. He watches in horror as her shoulders crumple and shake, but only once; because then her spine goes rigid and straight, and the moment is over.

For the first time since he found her at the party, she looks delicate. Breakable. Her shoulder blades, exposed by the cut of the dress, are fragile bird wings that flutter as she takes a composing breath.

Stiles is suddenly struck with terror at the thought of her turning around to look at him. He doesn’t want her to see him. He doesn’t want her to unearth the worms that crawl through his rotting body; his ice-cold, frozen planet of a heart. He doesn’t want her to scream. Doesn’t want her to run. Doesn’t want to be so woefully inadequate and broken.

But, even more than his screaming insecurity, he doesn’t want her to turn around and act like this moment of fragility never existed.

But she does turn, and the mask is there, and Stiles feels himself lean into the familiar and forever isolating facade of Lydia Martin pretending.

 

 

He tries not to look at her as he finishes breakfast, but he is Lot; aching to turn and watch, even if it fates him to becoming a pillar of salt, the risk worth the reward.

It’s just that she’s so goddamn pretty. She hunches over the breakfast bar, one leg pulled against her chest, the other dangling from the stool, toes grazing the cool wooden floor. Lips pouting, eyes red, chin in hand and hair falling around her face in a halo of fire.

For the second time in less than 24 hours, his mind loops, ‘ _She’s wearing white_ ,’ for seemingly no reason.

He wordlessly crosses the space between them to press a cup of freshly brewed coffee to her elbow. Her eyes flit to his before dropping to the cup.

“Does this have sugar?” She asks, the first words in a while.

“Yeah,” he says, turning around. “One scoop with cream.”

“I don’t drink cream in my coffee anymore. It’s almond milk now.”

He tries not to let it sting. It’s just fucking almond milk.

“...Oh.”

She drinks it anyway, choosing to let the silence thicken.

“Made french toast though. It’s still your favorite breakfast, right?”

Lydia shrugs noncommittally, casually attempting to be blase over something as mundane as breakfast food.

“Yeah, I guess. But only if with--”

A plastic carton flaps onto the counter, skidding to a stop perfectly in front of her. She looks up with a funny expression. Stiles stands with his arms crossed, trying and failing to not look pleased with himself.

“...Blackberries.” She finishes lamely.

 

  
They eat in an awkward silence, though Stiles is infinitely pleased to see she finishes her entire plate and licks her fork clean.  

“You remind me of something in that dress,” he murmurs quietly, scrubbing his stubbled jaw with a palm.

Lydia looks down at herself and then away, cheeks reddening. “Wonder what it could be.”

“Here,” he says, getting up to collect her sticky plate and silverware to deposit them in the sink. She holds them out to him, and when he takes them from her, he places his large palms on top of hers.

Two things happen very quickly at once. Stiles feels his stomach _lurch_ , as if falling from a great height, and Lydia pulls her hands from under his as if they had been burned.

They freeze, immobile in the idiosyncrasy of the moment. And then, with the least subtle throat clearing of all time, Stiles turns his back to her, and once more they play like this is totally, completely, not-at-all-abnormal.

Desperately, he pushes down the urge to reminisce about the moments when Lydia didn’t recoil from his touch. When she yearned for it, craved it even.

And for Stiles? Touching Lydia was a spiritual experience. It was the closest he came to God and Heaven and everything in between. She was, after all, the object of his worship. So, to have her flinch away from the hands that had held her and pleasured her and exalted her...well, it left Stiles feeling so hollow that even his heartbeat was a whisper of an echo.

 

 

  
When he beckons her to sit on the faded leather couch facing the conspiracy wall, his face is a carefully cultivated disguise he perfected while washing the dishes.

Lydia sits with her legs, arms, and expression crossed as he stands in front of her.

“I suppose you have questions.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

He takes a second to look at her. Really look.

She hasn’t aged a day since he last saw her crying in the rain, his bouquet of Rainflowers in one hand. He vividly remembers how her other hand had been clutching her chest, like everything was breaking and falling apart just beneath the skin and if she pushed and clawed hard enough, she might be able to salvage it.

She is just as beautiful as that day. Her hair is still long, lips still bee stung and rosy. Eyes still impossibly wide and endlessly green.

He wonders what she’s thinking, looking at him. He’s not the same man that left her broken hearted years ago. He doesn’t act like it, doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t even look like it. He knows his appearance is haggard; face weathered, chest broad and arms hard. He knows his scars are visible, that his eyes are purpled from restless nights, hair ungelled and eyebrows constantly pinched.

At least time has been kind to one of them.

“Would you like some binoculars?”

“...What.”

“Just figured they could help you with your examination. Should I stand in better lighting? Want me to move closer?”

“Oh please do, Martin. I’d like that.”

“Asshole.”

He rolls his eyes and turns to the conspiracy wall, squeezing his fists and fighting the urge to reach for her.

“I’m still fucking mad at you, you know. For just showing up last night. You have no idea what the worst case scenario could have been.” He huffs, reaching forward to the wall to unpin and repin a mugshot, just to give himself something to do. Anything to avoid looking at her.

“Hmm,” she sighs, and he feels himself getting frustrated, knowing that when she makes that breathy, girly noise, a smart ass comment is going to follow. “Let’s see. Could it possibly be that--”

“No,” he says, turning back to her, and something in his expression silences her. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to play coy about last night. You don’t get to pretend.”

Lydia’s face goes vulnerable and soft for a second before turning absolutely mutinous.

“You don’t have the authority to tell me what to do, Stilinski.” She says hotly. “You didn’t six years ago, and you especially don’t now.”

Stiles runs his fingers through the limp locks of his hair, pulling until they stick out in manic angles from his scalp. “You have no idea! You could have fucked everything up! You--”

“But I didn’t! And how was I supposed to know--?!”

“--Just come waltzing in like this wasn’t the most dangerous--”

“--You don’t tell me anything and then--”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW CLOSE YOU CAME TO BEING KILLED OR MUTILATED OR--”

“SIX YEARS. SIX FUCKING YEARS!” Lydia cries out. And then, to both of their horror, she bursts into tears.

Stiles shuts his mouth as she slaps a hand to cover her face. He watches in shock as she hiccups hysterically, shoulders shaking.

“Lydia,” he breathes, and the moment is so fragile and delicate. Time makes anything susceptible to destruction, and it was absolutely preposterous for him to assume that even something as solitary and perfect as Lydia Martin would be an exception.

He moves to comfort Lydia, hand stretching out; fingertips brushing the bare skin of her shoulder, butterfly soft.

She physically recoils, jolting away from his touch as a scream _rips_ from her throat, “ _DON’T TOUCH ME_!”

Her anger, never before directed at him at this magnitude, stuns him to silence, and he stands frozen in the middle of the room, hand still outstretched.  

 

In another lifetime, she’d take his hand and they’d wrap up together; so close that it was impossible to tell their bodies apart.

But that was then. This is now.

Instead, he just watches helplessly as she hyperventilates for five agonizing minutes on his couch in the beautiful morning sunshine.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He waits for her to calm, heart slamming brutally against the wall of his chest until her sobs become hiccups, and the hiccups become a stony stare. When he thinks she’s ready to listen, Stiles delivers the information to her as smoothly as he can, and she watches him passively with bloodshot eyes.

“This has been happening for the past two years. They disappear. Sometimes it’s individuals, at times, entire packs.” He circles a group photo of an unrecognizable, happy pack. They grin at Stiles and Lydia with empty eyes. They are the smoke of a snuffed candle; an entire pack, wiped out like it was nothing.

Lydia wraps her arms tighter around her body.

“Where do they go?”

“They’re taken. But only the important or rare supernatural. I think it would be merciful for it to end in death. I don’t know how peaceful the alternative is.”

He watches as Lydia’s eyes trace the red strings, cataloguing and calculating the information he’s giving her. This they can do. They are eighteen again, piecing together a macabre puzzle.

“It’s not just one big bad. It’s not even Deucalion’s alpha pack. It’s an entire organization,” Stiles continues. “I’m talking about a systematic operation with hundreds of employees and endless resources.”

“And the head of this aforementioned organization’s alias is--?”

Stiles lets his hands shake just once before licking his lips and saying, “The Collector.”

They look at each other in silence.

“And last night…” Lydia trails off, allowing him to confirm her suspicions.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, turning his back to her once more so she can’t see his eyes. “You were going to be collected.”

It’s quiet and still for a long time, and then he feels her hand snake across his shoulder. He turns his head to the side, not quite meeting her eyes.

“It wouldn’t have happened,” she whispers, and he feels himself shiver. “You wouldn’t have let that happen.”

It’s her words that give him the strength to look, and he finds her looking back.

“You’re not safe,” he murmurs, placing his palm on top of hers. She doesn’t move it this time. “Lydia, for some reason, you’ve been selected. You’re special. I mean, I’ve always known that, but now they know it too. They’re going to trace us back here and I can’t...I can’t--I…”

“We’ll figure it out,” she says firmly, even though her voice shakes. “We always, always figure it out.”

Stiles nods and it’s quiet again. Just Lydia’s hand, burning through his thermal, and the erratic thuds of his fractured heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you don’t want...I know you’ve been trying to get away from this. Beacon Hills, the supernatural... away from me….”

Lydia’s hand slides out from beneath his, and the air changes around them once more.

“Anyway,” he clears his throat. “Just wanted to say sorry for that. It’s not fair to you, and I can’t imagine--”

“No,” Lydia says, spinning her back to him and returning to the safety of the couch. “No, you can’t.”

But Stiles _can_ imagine. He can fathom it with crystalline clarity. He can imagine the nights Lydia has spent laying alone in bed, sobbing so hard her bones crack and her muscles ache in the morning. He can imagine the nights that are even worse; nights where she’s swallowed whole by darkness until it’s not even Lydia, but the vacant stare of a body.

Stiles can imagine Lydia in the arms of lovers and he can imagine Lydia pouring over her work to distract her mind. Lydia running at the gym until her legs give out. Lydia plucking the petals off his recent bouquet. Lydia scouring the obituaries in the newspaper, and calling hospitals and morgues.

He can imagine the desperate desire to run far, far away from a world he was thrust into without his consent or permission. To be violated in every sense of the word. To be taunted, haunted, and hunted. He can imagine what it feels like for her to finally break free of the all encompassing and overwhelming stench of ruin, only to be pulled back into the terror of the past. Again, without consent.

He wants peace for her. He wants it so bad he stands in front of her and _aches_.

 _One day_ , he promises silently to her. _One day you’ll know peace, and I will be the one to give you that. Even if I have to burn this entire world to the ground, I’d do it. I’d do it for you, Lydia Martin._

He wipes his eyes and musters the courage to bare the bad news.

“You know what we have to do, right?”

“I suspect as much.”

“We have to run, Lydia. They’ll trace us here. They’re on the hunt for us.”

Lydia turns her face to the sun rising over his shoulder through the window, and her expression breaks his heart over and over.

“What if I don’t want to run,” she whispers. “What if I told you I know you can handle this alone.”

“...I can’t.”

“I’m tired, Stiles. I’m so, so tired.”

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You _left_ me.”

“...Yes.”

They share a look.

Lydia stands and begins to gather the material of her white dress around her legs, and his eyes follow the movement.

“I’ll go,” she says, “On one condition. No more keeping tabs, no more cryptic messages, no more goddamn flowers.”

Something inside him curdles at that. No more flowers. No more keeping tabs. No more Lydia Martin. He doesn’t know who he is without her. He doesn’t know his place, his relation in this universe. Without the flowers, without this single thing to bind him to her, to his past life--he will detach completely. One final farewell, and the old Stiles Stilinski will cease to exist.  
  
No more flowers. She doesn’t want them.  
  
_Then again_ , he thinks, and fuck, it claws at him like any real monster he ever faced, _she never did_.

“Lydia, I can’t--I don’t think--”

“After this ends, you leave me and my fiance the hell alone.”

Stiles feels like she just smacked him across the face. His body moves before his mind does, physically reacting to the word.

 _Fiance_.

It’s primal; makes his adrenaline jump right to fight or flight; Hitting him like a sucker punch, and he wants to double over and vomit.

His eyes go right to her left hand, but there is nothing there.

Still.

Lydia always knows just what to say to inflict the most damage with minimal effort. She’s always been like that, even when he wasn’t a blip on her radar. She is, after all, a genius.

_What the hell is a Stiles?_

_Fiance._

She observes his reaction wordlessly, her face unreadable. Her mask is perfectly crafted, and once again, Lydia Martin is formidable and impenetrable.

He shakes his head, closes his mouth, and solemnly nods.

“I promise,” he says, swallowing hard. “You want that, and I’ll give it to you. But that’s under the condition that you do whatever the fuck I tell you when I’m trying to protect you.”  
  
She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off. “I’m not fucking around, Lydia. I tranqued you last night and I’d do it again in a second if it meant keeping you safe. However, I’d rather it not come to that.”  
  
Lydia glares at him for a long moment before nodding curtly and moving to gather what little items she has on hand. When she moves past him, Stiles juts his hand out, grabbing her elbow.

“What?” She snaps.

He lets go, but his fingers trail behind, gently tracing over her soft skin before falling to his side.

It makes something in her eyes change.

“What is it?”

It’s a question, but she says it like she already knows the answer, and she’s terrified to hear it.

“I know what your dress reminds me of. What it makes you look like.”

And then they’re staring at each other like it’s old times. Like they can read each other’s mind without even trying. Like they’re on the same metaphysical plane, in every world, in every universe. Staring hard and unflinching, collectively reaching the truth all at once.

Green and brown eyes, Lydia and Stiles. Stiles and Lydia. Always and always and always.

“You look like a bride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you, I love you, I love you.
> 
> Rachel, Jade. I feel like it's almost an impossibility that the human body does not have two hearts, because you take up all of mine. 
> 
>  
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


	6. Gardenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gardenia, or Gardenia jasminoides.
> 
> "You are lovely."
> 
>  
> 
> Secret love.

Stiles isn’t sure what’s worse: the fact that he’s carting a currently scowling Lydia Martin halfway across the globe against her better judgement, or that she’s wearing leftover clothes from his loft that belong to women who are not her.

He looks at her under his lashes. Her chin rests on top of her knee, leg braced against her chest, furiously engrossed in the latest Times crossword puzzle. He can practically feel her fury crash against his skin like rolling waves.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of how likely she’d be to strangle him if he complimented how cute she looks in the oversized sweatpants with the word ‘Juicy’ splashed across her ass.

The likelihood of him making it onto the plane alive? Slim to none.

 

* * *

 

They had stripped his apartment in a matter of minutes. It was wiped completely of all evidence of life. The most tedious aspect was ripping down The Wall, collecting the endless articles and pictures and papers, and stuffing them into the duffle bag that was currently sitting in the airport seat next to him. Next was the bank, where he withdrew his entire account. Then he set his car on fire in an alley. They took an Uber to the airport, and now here they are; arms crossed, knees bouncing, waiting for their row to board Norwegian Airlines.

In a way, it was only slightly alarming how fast the process took. And in another way, it wasn’t. Stiles had been living in that open loft for years, but he had nothing of importance in it, and he felt no remorse in leaving it behind. It meant nothing to him.

Maybe remorse is just a habit he kicked a long time ago.

“Hungry?” He asks, nudging her with his shoulder. She shoots him a glare and shoos him away with ink stained fingertips.

He stares a little too long at her hands before flicking his eyes back up to hers.

“I can get you that hummus with the pretzels you like? Or some granola?”

Lydia huffs and finally folds her paper, defeated. “Stiles. It’s one in the morning and we’re sitting in an almost abandoned airport getting ready to board an eleven hour flight. I think we’re a little past granola.”

Stiles nods in affirmation. “Got it. French fries it is.”

 

 

He makes her come with him because he’s a paranoid son of a bitch, and she complies with relatively little whining.

They stand in front of the illuminated McDonald’s sign, arms crossed and frowning while a sleep-drunk employee watches them with dead eyes.

“You want the number five?”

“No.”

“Want the small fries with a McFlurry?”

“No.”

“Want me to repeatedly punch myself in the face for your amusement?”

“Tempting.”

Had this been senior year of high school, he would have rolled his eyes at Lydia and grabbed her by the waist, smooching her cheek with obnoxiously wet smacking noises. And had Stiles been the same person he was at eighteen, he would have pulled this off with varying degrees of success.

But senior year was a long time ago, and Stiles is not that person anymore. Hasn’t been for a very long time.

Instead he just looks down at his boots.

They have blood on them.

He looks away.

 

* * *

 

He’s delighted to find that Lydia Martin is actually fucking hilarious on airplane trips. As soon as they’re sitting, she nests in her seat to create the most comfortable resting position possible. Then comes the hair. Stiles watches under his lashes as she piles it on top of her head in a messy bun. His eyes linger at her baby hair, curling and kissing the nape of her neck. Finally, she whips out a mini travel sized container of lotion and rubs it over her hands, forearms, and collarbone.

“...That’s quite the flight routine, Martin.”

She glares at him. “I’ll be the one laughing when the processed, recycled air of the cabin dries out your elbows.”

“My elbows can take it.”

She huffs and gingerly fluffs the complimentary blanket the airline provided in response. Stiles frowns.

Eleven hours in a confined space with Lydia Martin. He’s not really sure who is more trapped, but it’s been six years, and she’s here, and she’s not one of his dreams. She’s tangible and warm and if he moves his arm two inches to the right, he’d feel the silky softness of her skin. He’s sure as hell not going to waste this time. Not a single second of it.

He’s going to take advantage of it by bothering the fuck out of her.

“Why do you even have that blanket on your lap? It’s scratchy.”

“It’s also cold.”

“And the pillow they give you is so small. It’s like they expect all the passengers to have tiny baby heads.”

“Well Stilinski, not everybody is blessed with your gargantuan blockhead.”

“You wound me.”

She turns to face him, smiling viciously. “Glad to hear it.”

Stiles places a hand over his chest, wrinkling his nose and groaning mockingly. “Aww, babe. Stop, my heart can’t take it.”

Lydia looks at him curiously for a moment, and then turns back away. “Besides,” she says, clearing her throat. “You brought your own pillow.”

Stiles looks down at the tried and true pillow, currently taking up his entire lap. It’s flattened from years of use, and discolored in the corners. It’s fucking disgusting. He loves it.

“I can’t sleep without it.”

“I know. It’s tragic.”

“Nah, Martin. What’s tragic is that you have the word ‘Juicy’ on your ass.”

Lydia actually, physically recoils away from him; squeezing her body to as close to the window and as far away from him as possible.

The atmosphere between them goes ice cold, and he’s suddenly extremely eager to get off the ground and into the air. He runs his palm over his mouth, as if he could wipe the words away.

“Sorry,” he mutters, bouncing his knee. His voice cracks a little and he lips his lips, continuing. “Sorry, I don’t mean to agitate you.”

“It’s just different now,” she says, still facing the window. “I don’t want to joke around with you. I don’t want to hate you either. I just want to get off this goddamn airplane and back to my life.”

The life that’s sans-him.

Stiles nods, repressing the sinking feeling that’s hanging low in chest. He makes one last attempt.

“Of course. But, for the record, those sweatpants aren’t giving any false advertisement.”

“Shut up, Stilinski.”

“Shutting up.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as the flight attendants finish their spiel on emergency exits and proper seat belt functions, he feels Lydia stiffen beside him. When the plane starts its winding navigation across the maze of the runways, she grips her armrest with white knuckles.

Stiles turns to her, raising his eyebrows. She frowns at him, answering his unspoken question.

“What. I’ve never been a fan of airplanes.”

“But you’ve been on them before.”

“Doesn’t mean I like them. I mean, sure. Logically I understand that this is the height of air travel safety, and that statistically the likelihood of crashing and burning in a freak accident is monumentally low, but it still doesn’t take away the fact that we’re in a metal cylinder flying through the air at breakneck speed.”

“Point taken.”

Lydia huffs, rolling her eyes at herself. “I can’t believe I’m the anxious one right now.”

“You act like one of us is the ‘go-with-the-flow’ person.”

Lydia side-eyes him, but there’s a small smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. It vanishes when the lights of the cabin shut off and the tip of the plane lifts from the certainty of the ground and into the variability of the night sky.  

She whimpers.

She actually whimpers. The soft and hesitant sound causes Stiles’ vision to tunnel.

“Hey,” he whispers into the dark. “Hey, Lydia, it’s okay.”

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, but his hand finds the back of her neck, and he can’t stop himself from giving it a supportive squeeze. He closes the distance between them, leaning in close to mumble into her ear.

“The worst part is over.” He says, rubbing his palm along her shoulders, massaging her neck with his fingertips. “The worst of part is over.”

Lydia turns to meet his stare, eyes shining in the dark.

“No,” she whispers. “It’s not.”

 

 

Hour 0300

Lydia is tossing and turning next to him. She frequently crosses and uncrosses her legs, arms akimbo and scowl a-plenty. After half an hour of her nonsense, Stiles slips a flight attendant some green and requests a sleep mask.

“Of course, sir,” she smiles, and she’s really very pretty. “That’s so sweet that you want your girlfriend to get the best sleep possible.”

“We’re not dating,” they both grumble at the same time.

The flight attendant looks between them quizzically before offering a dazzling smile. “Of course, of course.”

Lydia leans across Stiles’ lap, pushing him against the seat to grin manically at the statuesque woman.

“He really is _so_ committed to my sleep schedule. In fact, just the other day he stuck a tranquilizer in my neck,” she says with wink.

The attendant goes white and Stiles can actually feel the exact moment his blood begins to boil.

“Not funny, Lydia.”

“No, it really, really wasn’t.”

Stiles shoots a look at the flabbergasted attendant’s ample chest, reading her name tag.

“Kimberly,” he smiles charmingly. “Kimberly, thank you so much for all your help.”

Something in her demeanor changes, and she flushes a little. “Yeah, of course sir. I’ll be right back with that sleep mask.”

 

When she returns with the mask, her number comes along with it.

Lydia doesn’t talk for the next two hours.

 

  

Hour 0600

She’s still not sleeping and his legs are cramping spectacularly. Stiles is not meant to be in small, confined spaces for an extended amount of time. It does not a peaceful Stiles make.

When Lydia shifts uncomfortably for the millionth time, he wordlessly hands her his pillow.

She looks at it strangely before looking at him.

“That’s your pillow.”

“Your perceptibility is astounding.”

“You can’t sleep without it.”

“Take the pillow, Martin.”

Lydia takes it and falls asleep five minutes later.

 

 

Hour 1000

Their pursuers are on the plane.

They’ve followed them onto the plane, he’s sure of it. Stiles studies the shadows over his shoulder, trying to be as discreet as possible. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s caught on.

What would be the best way to approach the attackers? He shouldn’t act first, of course. Perhaps they’re waiting as well, holding their breath till the second the plane reaches the ground before striking.

He shoots a look to Lydia, eyes closed and sleeping beautifully on his pillow. Her eyes move under their delicate lids, and he wonders what she’s dreaming about. Wonders if they’ve shared dreams these past six years apart.

They used to have the same dreams.

Stiles looks back over his seat. He has a few concealed weapons that he’s smuggled onto the plane, but only one that’s easily accessible. He can’t attack from a distance. He’ll have to wait till they’re up close. But how close will be too close? What if they have the upper hand in weaponry and they’re capable of hitting at a distance?

His hand twitches on his hip, and he licks his lips.

What was that? Someone is getting up to move. Stiles’ knee jerks once before he freezes it.  
_  
_ _Control. Control yourself, Stiles. Wait._

The man doesn’t make it to them. Instead he slips into the constricted bathroom of the plane. Stiles feels himself begin to sweat. He can’t stop his head from whipping around to survey the rows behind him.

They’re here. He can feel it.

When he turns back around to check on Lydia again, her eyes are open and she’s watching him.

He feels something akin to shame wash over him, though he’s not quite sure why. He licks his lips, about to explain but she cuts him off.

“There’s no one there.”

“...What?”

“There’s no one there, Stiles.”

The lights of the cabin flick on and he jumps a foot into the air. It should be funny, but Lydia doesn’t laugh.

 

It’s midday when they enter the hotel room, but their jet lag is obscene. Stiles is used to jet lag and the familiar feeling of all-night insomnia. Lydia, on the other hand….

He carried both of their bags from the airport, down the wet and cobblestoned streets of a remote Norwegian village, and up to the concierge (who blissfully spoke English) of the small hotel. Lydia had trailed behind him in a fog the entire walk, and whenever they stopped she had leaned her petite frame against anything solid.

Stiles isn’t sure if she even heard the employee tell them they only had one-bedroom accommodations available.

He looks at her now, motionless in the doorway of the comfortable but small room, staring at the singular bed.

He waits for her to scream, to make a fuss, but instead she levels her weary gaze on his and somehow that’s so much worse.

“Ever feel like the universe is laughing at you?” She asks, and doesn’t wait for his answer as she flings her body on top of the bed with a sigh.

 

 

Stiles isn’t sure when or how they both managed to fall asleep. But one moment he’s on his side looking at the closed-curtained window, a world away from the body only a foot from his, and the next he’s opening his eyes to the feeling of the bed shifting.

It takes him a moment to blink the slumber from his hazy gaze, but the vision of Lydia shines through; her hair muzzled in twisted curls, a singular curl sticking to her jaw. Her lips, flushed, and raw, and swollen from sleep. Her eyes blink blearily before dropping down to her hands. She swallows hard. He follows her gaze and for a weighted moment, they both stare at the image of his large palm covering hers.

Lydia angrily retracts her hand, and the moment shatters into irreparable pieces.

Stiles feels his stomach drop so forcefully and suddenly that it’s painful. “Sor--,” he whispers, but his voice breaks, splintering in the cold air between them. He closes his eyes. Clears his throat. “Lydia,” he opens his eyes, “I’m sorry--”

The room is empty. The door of the bathroom slams shut.

 

* * *

 

 

_His fingers trail through the wet strands of hair that look like fire, and burns like it too. It’s curious, how hair can be wet and burning all at once._

_Then again, it belongs on the head of Lydia, so it’s not altogether that curious. She’s always been a walking anomaly._

_“You are very interesting, Miss Martin.” He tells her, pulling a brush through her thick, wet locks._

_He feels rather than hears her chuckle._

_“Is that so, Stilinski?”_

_“Yes,” he says, and puts the brush down to place both hands on the crown of her head. He trails them down her cranium, pushes the wet hair against her neck, follows it all the way down her bare back._

_The burn is delicious. Irrationally, he wishes his entire body was engulfed in the wonderment of her flames._

_“Done brushing my hair?” She says, and the sound of her smile twinkles like starlight in the empty air._

_“I want to feel you,” he admits, and it feels like a confession, him wanting her. Even with her back to him, it feels overpowering. Immense. Colossal.  “I’ve always wanted you. Your hair is wet and it burns. You can apply lip gloss without using a mirror and you dream in nontrivial zeros.”_

_She goes still under his hands but he knows he hasn’t scared her._

_“....And what do you dream about, Stiles?”_

_Again, he runs his palms over the gentle blaze of her hair. But when he looks down at them, they’re un-blistered, skin pale and soft. There are six fingers on each hand._

_“You,” he says._

 

* * *

 

 

When he opens his eyes, Lydia is sitting back on her heels next to him on the mattress, watching.

Her hair is wet from the shower, and for the first time in a _very_ long time, Stiles wants to cry. He feels his face screw up, but then he closes his eyes and wipes it clean, devoid of emotion.

He can’t read Lydia’s expression when he opens them again.

“...I’m hungry.”

“Okay,” he croaks.

“And I want fresh clothes. I’d rather not parade around Norway with the implication that my ass is a luscious, ripe fruit.”

It makes the corner of his mouth quirk, and she graciously lets herself give him a small, close lipped smile.

“Food and Juicy-free pants. Coming right up.”

 

It’s a soft twilight when they leave the room. By the grace of the genius that is Lydia Martin, they’re able to order food at a warm bistro because Lydia can speak a little bit of Norwegian, of-fucking-course.

Stiles bites into the warm bread of his sandwich, moaning occasionally as Lydia drags him through conglomerations of glossy storefronts.

The village is beautiful; small but tourist friendly. Snow crests the sidewalks, pillowing in soft piles under vintage street lamps. Laughter and warm light filter out of pubs. Aging couples stroll arm in arm.

It’s _romantic_ . It aches when Lydia pulls him to the store windows, pointing out an outfit she admires, and he catches their reflection in the brightly lit glass. Him, long and lean, hair unkempt, nose pink, brow pinched and arms crossed. Her, tiny and feminine, hair bouncy despite the travel, cheeks kissed by the cold. Both bodies standing with a clear distance between them. It _aches_.

Stiles forces himself to zone out as Lydia piles cashmere sweaters, boots, and thick stockings in his arms. It’s the only way he knows how to stop spiraling at the memory of eighteen-year-old Lydia dragging him across the familiar stomping grounds of the Beacon Hills Mall.

Either she seems to have grasped the direness of their situation, or the gravity of her current wardrobe compels her to skip the frivolity of pretty clothing, instead going right to necessities. Lydia wordlessly buys clothing for both herself and him. His measurements have changed, but he didn’t need to tell her. She buys him his exact size without asking.

“Try this on,” Lydia snaps, tossing a navy peacoat into his fumbling arms. “I’m going to try this outfit and I’ll be right out.” And with a flip of her hair, she disappears behind the door of the dressing room.

She comes out five minutes later in a tight white dress. It hugs her body like a second skin, and Stiles feels his mouth go dry. It’s impractical if they’re on the run, but helpful if they’d need to pull another stunt to blend into privileged society. The fact that it’s also fucking hot as hell is not lost on him.

She freezes in the doorway when they lock eyes, but then her nose is in the air and she’s striding past him to the floor length mirror. He watches as she runs her hands over her ribs and down her hips with a decadent sigh, turning to examine her ass over her shoulder.

It’s hell on Earth.

The store assistant chooses the perfect time to interrupt, entering the dressing room with an armful of clothing.

“Oh,” she gasps upon seeing Lydia. “Oh, sweetheart. Oh my, what a beauty you are.”

Lydia gives her a warm smile in the reflection of the mirror. Then the assistant says, “You two make such a beautiful couple,” and Stiles watches it slip from her face.

“We’re not a couple,” they both snarl. His words reek of bitterness, hers of defiance. The woman takes a step back, apologizing profusely, but the damage is done. Lydia storms away from the mirror, ripping the tight dress from her body before she even makes it to the privacy of her personal room.

 

 

She’s silent as they storm through the snowy streets. Stiles skulks slightly behind her, hands in pockets and scowl on his face. He is her shadow, forever following her footsteps, desired or otherwise.

In a post-mistaken couple filled fury, she used his wealth to buy superfluous, expensive shit. Makeup. Heels. The tightest and most feminine dresses possible.

She’s wounded. He doesn’t stop her.

He wonders what it must feel like for Lydia, to have to live with his ghost. To wake up in the mornings, haunted. To have to look around every corner, waiting. To have to anticipate him.

_Six years._

Sometimes those six years are a blink of an eye. Sometimes the six years are endless. Sometimes he blacks out and can’t remember any of it. Other times he wishes he could forget. Six years. It stretches inside of him; makes his bones crack and his stomach twist. It catches in his throat. It buries itself down to his toes. It takes up every nook and cranny of him until he’s filled with nothing but six years, six years, six years.

Six years without Lydia.

“Lydia,” he breathes, and he chokes on her name. “Lydia--”

She’s already looking at him, of course. She’s paused in the middle of the street to watch him shake. Her eyes tell him she knows it isn’t from the cold.

“Lyds--?”

She shakes her head. Her hair is fire in the night, snowflakes caught in the flame. Burning, but gentle enough to cradle ice without melting. His anomaly.

Stiles looks down at his fingers and counts them. He’s still trying to count them when her small, cold hands slide into his. She says his name, breathy and subdued, like a gentle secret. He’s her gentle secret; the one she keeps close to her chest. He could be violent. He could be dangerous. He could tear her apart if she let him. But in a quiet, soft place, he’s not any of those things to her. He knows that she loves him too much to let him destroy her.

Six years.

“Why are you marrying him.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but it just tumbles over; a cracked vase, dead flowers, spilling water. He doesn’t even mean for it to come out sounding the way it does; like it hurts.

It does. It does hurt.

And then Lydia’s fingertips leave his hands to cradle his head. Her elegant fingers trace the stubble of his chin. When her pointer finger traces the scar, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing. She makes shushing noises, soothing him, returning to the familiar pattern of trying to get his heartbeat under control, public place and previous feuds be damned.

Her hands feels so good on his skin, touching and giving. He lets his eyes flutter shut, breathing in through his nose and heavily out his mouth. Alpha, Beta, Omega. Sun, Moon, Truth. Lydia, Six Years.

When he opens them, both of their eyes are wet and a man is watching them from down the street.

His heart lurches violently and he immediately grabs her wrist from his jaw, tugging her forward, uncaring if he bruises. Lydia yelps and he can hear her painful protests behind him.

“Shut up,” he says, and something in his voice compels her to comply. She snaps her mouth closed with a click, eyes wide and luminous in the streetlight glow.

When he glances over his shoulder, the man crosses to the other side of the street, inconspicuously looking at his shoes. But his right hand is buried in the breast of his coat. Stiles knows with a clear and sudden certainty that it rests on a gun.

“There’s someone watching us,” he leans down to whisper in her ear.

“Stiles--”

“No,” he interjects. “No, this isn’t like on the plane. He’s there, ten o’clock.”

Lydia slowly begins to swivel her head, but Stiles lightly grabs her chin, turning it back with a tender brush of his fingers.

“No, Lyds. Don’t look, just keep walking. Pretend like everything's normal.”

He feels her squeak indignantly beside him. “We’re in fucking Norway with a dozen shopping bags because we’re on the goddamn run, everything is _not_ normal, _Stiles_!” She hisses his name, eyes wild and darting dangerously.

Stiles lowers a palm to the gentle slope of her lower back, urging her forward through the thinning crowd. Quickly, he assesses his options. His glock is tucked into the waistband of his pants, an XDM 9MM strapped to his ankle. There are various winding alleyways to duck into. The south entrance is more congested with people than the north. The man stalks twenty yards behind them, giving them a mere seven-second lead.

He wipes his mouth with his hand, sweat beginning to bead at the nape of his neck despite the freezing temperature. Fight or flight.

He’s felt this sensation more times than he’s cared to. It’s been an omnipresent feeling ever since he turned sixteen and his best friend was bitten under the starless, inky sky of Beacon Hills Reserve.

 _Fight or flight, fight or flight_.

It’s always been fight. He came into this world fighting; bloody and red-faced and screaming. He fought to get in it. He fought to be acknowledged; his hand thrusting into the air when his teachers would ask the class a question. When Lydia would strut right by him even when he was speaking directly to her. When his father would slur his name, eyes bleary and breath sour.  
  
He fought for Scott. He fought for Scott to be first line. He fought for Scott to be the captain of his own destiny, the leader of his own pack. He fought for Scott’s ideals, wishing so badly, so desperately, that he could fulfill the pure impossibility of them.

He looks down at her now, and isn’t surprised to see her staring back up at him. She looks so scared.

“Stiles,” she whispers, lips trembling. “Stiles, what do we do?”

He fights for her. It was for Lydia. It was because of Lydia. In the beginning and now at the end; It’s always Lydia.

“We run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, Rachel and I must announce that we are taking a short hiatus. We will return to posting weekly Wednesday chapters post-holidays in January. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your love and support, and a big thank you to Rachel and Jade, as always.
> 
> Wishing you and yours a beautiful holiday season. May your days be merry and bright. xx
> 
>  
> 
> Love always,  
> Maggie 
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com


	7. Dandelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dandelion, or taraxacum
> 
> Healing from emotional pain and physical injury alike
> 
> Intelligence in an emotional/spiritual sense

Stiles has been watching _Friends_ for three days.

Lydia can remember long Sundays cuddled next to him on the couch in his living room, a blanket draped over their laps as the familiar laugh track crackled loudly from the speakers on his TV— his dad always needed the volume turned up higher than they did. Before all this, she had associated the theme song of this show with Stiles' head on her shoulder; Stiles fighting cheesy fries out of his dad's hand; Stiles letting her put her feet under his legs because they were cold. Now, every time she hears the theme song, she has the faint realization that she is thirty minutes closer to madness than she was the last time she heard it.

Because Stiles, this Stiles, doesn't laugh as he watches television. He sits on the thick gold comforter of the king sized bed that they are sharing and stares blankly at the screen. Lydia would assume that he wasn't watching the show at all, but sometimes he mouths the words along with the dialogue that is familiar to him. Not that she's paying attention.

Their small room in this bed and breakfast would normally have impressed Lydia, with its rich red and gold coloring, elegant cherry-wood canopy bed, and lush armchairs. But she feels trapped by everything, down to the merrily cackling fireplace, the books Stiles had gotten for her out of the downstairs library, and Stiles _himself_.

They haven't said anything to each other for three days, either.

Lydia isn't quite sure if it is her fault, per se. When he'd told her that they were getting back on a plane because he suspected they were being followed, she had clamped her mouth shut and thinned out her lips so much that he had made a joke about them getting stuck together. When she hadn't responded, he hadn't kept trying to get her to say something. She hadn't ventured a word. And now they're here, nothing but the sound of a 90s sitcom filling the room.

She had _almost_ broken her silence when she saw the location on the plane tickets Stiles had bought for the two of them. Lydia has wanted to have her honeymoon in Scotland since she was a little girl, and it doesn't escape her that here she is, on the eve of becoming engaged to someone else, sitting in Scotland with the man she tries too hard not to love.

Lydia's going to have to find a new place to have her honeymoon. It's just another thing he's robbed her of.

The _Friends_ theme song is playing again, and it almost feels nice to want to scream in a way that isn't related to being a banshee.

* * *

Night and day has stopped mattering; they never leave their room anyways. Lydia stretches awake on the fourth night by arching backwards, her arms curving behind herself as her head tosses towards the headboard, hair sliding down her back. She makes a luxurious noise, long and loud and a little embarrassing, and then glances towards Stiles to see if he'd heard it.

He's dead asleep. When they were younger, he would startle awake at any random thing that happened, until he would get to the point where his mouth was hanging open and he was breathing heavy in her ear. Then, he wouldn't wake up for anything, as if even a world where she was his wasn't tempting enough to jolt him awake.

Which Lydia had been grateful for back then, because Stiles never slept, and when she could get him to sleep this well, he was always quietly grateful to her the next day. But now she's glad for a different reason. It's a chance to continue testing her hypothesis that the person lying next to her in bed isn't the person that the weaker pieces of her have been desperately missing.

In the blue light of the television, Lydia can see every line and mark on his face. Carefully, she turns onto her stomach and slides closer to him on her elbows, staring.

His nose still curves upwards, just like it always did. He's got thick brows, and they're furrowed as per usual. His head is tilted a little to the side, so that she can see the cluster of three moles by his ear. She's always liked the one closest to his lobe best; liked the way it made his breath high pitched and whiney when she bit and licked at it.

But there's new things too— things that don't belong to the boy she loved. He's got a scar at his eyebrow, and one under his eye that Lydia never would have noticed had she not been studying him so intently. His shoulders are broader, the muscles in his arms thicker, and he walks differently now. Instead of the quick, short steps he used to take, always prancing a little bit to keep up with Scott, he takes longer strides, and loud ones, ones that clomp aggressively against the pavement.

His voice is deeper too. Thicker, huskier, like at all times he's just finished an earth shattering scream. Listening to him talk hurts her vocal chords. It's like sandpaper, making her wonder if he'd taken up smoking for something to do with his restless hands.

 _You're broken_ , she thinks, staring at him with dread filling her stomach. _Someone broke you_.

No.

_No._

"You broke yourself."

She whispers it, reaching tentative fingers out to slide it up from his arm to his stubbly cheek. She touches him like he's a piece in a museum, as if she's studying him like one of the chemicals in her labs, trying to break it apart and see what she can use to build something new; something better.

But that's always emotionless, detached. She isn't used to studying a body that contains the soul of the man who was supposed to be the love of her life.

The movement of breath whooshing through Stiles' lungs makes his strong chest rise and fall. He isn't wearing a shirt— Lydia thinks it's less to tantalize her and more because he doesn't feel like doing unnecessary laundry— and she can see the light smattering of hair that he's always had on his sternum. Her eyes shift down it, and then she slowly reaches out and moves the blanket, sliding it down his torso until his stomach is revealed to her.

And, yes. There's that, too.

When Lydia had imagined a future with Stiles, it had never been like this. He had been scrawny, and a sweetheart, and silly. He'd come back to her, after being gone for so long when they were in high school. She had never craved _this_ from him, and yet seeing his body like this still manages to make a bolt of attraction shoot through her body, landing between her legs.

He's grown up. He grew up.

She had known that of Scott, known that of herself, but Stiles has been frozen in time for six years for Lydia. And now she's lying in bed next to the same boy who she has been falling for since she was sixteen, who loved her when he was eight-years-old, who kissed her on the cheek in the hallways in high school and came in his boxer-briefs the first time he ate her out. The very person who she has been shutting out and longing for and hating and adoring every day for the past six years had, somehow, ended up right next to her, all over again.

The fact that he has abs doesn't necessarily mean that he's a different person. It doesn't even mean she wants him more. It's just something that hurts, because they're a manifestation of who he became without her.

Stiles' mouth snaps shut with a jolt, and he turns on his side, towards Lydia's warmth. The movement causes her to instinctively jerk away from him, shooting to the other side of the bed, heart hammering in her chest.

"Ly'ia," he murmurs in his sleep, nuzzling his nose against the pillow and smacking his lips before throwing his arm all the way across the mattress as though he's reaching for her.

It's not the first time this has happened, and Lydia knows better than to stay still now. Last time, he'd wrapped his arm all the way around her and she had woken up to his hand pressing against her lower stomach and his dick cradled against her body.

She's not doing that again.

The bathroom will be a fine place to spend the rest of the evening; she can draw a bath and take one of her books in there. But Stiles moans loudly as she opens the door— he always was an obnoxious sleeper, she isn't sure why she's never called him out for it— and it shoots straight to Lydia's clit, causing her heart to slam to a halt in her chest. Hastily, Lydia shoves her body into the bathroom and closes the door, blocking Stiles out of her sight.

Then she slides down the door, trying to stabilize herself. Everything catches up to her all at once; who he is, who he isn't, who she _can't_ be, no matter how hard she tries, and Lydia presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, quivering slightly. It takes her a moment to take stock of herself and realize that what she is feeling is _want_. The feeling claws through her, possessive and eager and burning through Lydia's blood, and she blinks in surprise at how consuming it is.

In her adult life, she hasn't felt much of this. A part of her had just assumed that being insatiable like she had been when she was a teenager was just something that faded with time— you grow up, your hormones stop bouncing off the walls, and suddenly you don't _need_ as much as you used to.

(And, really, it's her fault for not immediately making the connection that her ravenous sex drive had vanished around the time Stiles had.)

But now, sitting on the bathroom floor as Stiles sleeps peacefully a few feet away, Lydia feels it again. She feels it pulsing between her thighs in a way that is almost agonizing, leaving her no choice but to lift her knees towards her chest and spread her legs. Lydia slips her hand inside of her shorts and slides her fingers slowly through herself, trying to build up her courage to begin touching herself in earnest.

She lets her fingers brush shallowly against her opening, always too small to really have an impact, and then gathers her wetness before slithering her fingers up to her clit and finding it with an ease that comes with familiarity. It feels like it's been forever since she'd done this, but if Lydia's ever been an expert at any part of herself, it would probably be her knowledge of what she likes. Slowly, rhythmically, she moves her fingers in circles around her aching clit, working her way up.

_Stiles, bare shoulders illuminated by sunshine. Stiles, pretty cupid's bow tugged between her teeth. Stiles, telling her how tight she feels as she fucks herself down on him over and over again. Stiles, letting his gaze linger on her for longer than necessary. Stiles, sleeping too close to her in their bed despite the fact that it's big enough to fit three people._

Startlingly, the last two memories are from now, not distantly faded polaroids of what once had been the most important moments of Lydia's life. The knowledge that he still does this to her, still turns her on like this, makes Lydia bite back a moan and begin moving her hand faster. She opens her eyes and watches her fingers shift eagerly under the fabric of her sleep shorts, building her up, up, up, and, god, it's so hot, knowing that he's right out there, fast asleep while she gets herself off.

_Stiles, wanting her, loving her, after all this time._

Her thighs are squeezing together, her eyes snapping shut and her head banging back against the bathroom door as she sucks her lower lip into her mouth. Her clit is still pulsing as she slowly, carefully, rubs smaller circles around herself, letting her heartbeat wind down. She slumps over a little once her body has untensed itself, still breathing heavily when she hears Stiles' panicked voice echoing through the room.

" _Lydia_?" Oh, shit. "Lydia!"

His raw desperation causes her to spring up, opening the bathroom door to reveal him standing in the middle of the room in his pajama bottoms, hand already on his gun. Stiles' terrified breathing is just as heavy as Lydia's is, and when he hears the bathroom door open, he whips his entire body around, sagging in relief when he sees her illuminated by the light of the bathroom.

If this were the first time this had happened since they'd gotten to Europe, she would probably feel more uneasy.

He's so paranoid. He's such a mess. She wishes it wouldn't tear her apart so much, to see Stiles lost in himself.

"I'm right here," she says, even though he can see her.

He staggers backwards slightly, dropping his gun onto the plush armchair in which Lydia has been doing most of her reading these past several days.

"You're right there," he mutters to himself, his torso stretching upwards as he reaches into his hair to wrap the strands around his fingers and tug a little. "You're there." He looks up at her, eyes a bit wild. "I heard a thump."

"I hit my head getting up."

He nods to himself, pacing.

"Okay. Okay."

"Stiles," she murmurs. The pacing stops. He closes his eyes, nodding to indicate that she can speak. "Why did you pick Scotland?"

He looks confused.

"You always wanted to go here, didn't you? Did I mix it up with Ireland, or something?"

For a moment, her lower lip trembles as she processes the innocence with which he had made this choice. Then she forces herself into a steel expression, almost hearing the bars lowering as she blocks herself off from him.

"Go back to sleep," she says, and walks back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind herself.

* * *

Lydia steals the room key while Stiles is in the shower.

He hadn't hid it very well, really, which is his own fault for trusting her. Lydia only has to sort through a few piles of his crap before she finds the key to the room and tucks it into the cup of her bra. Then she unceremoniously snatches up all of his clothes, stuffs them into his duffel bag, and throws them out the window.

Then she waits.

Stiles emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later— his showers are quick now, unlike they used to be, when he would croon lovesongs into the showerhead to make Lydia laugh as she washed her face at the sink— with a towel wrapped around his waist. Beads of water are dripping down the planes of his chest, and he's too busy shaking water out of his sopping wet hair to notice his missing clothes at first.

Then his eyes fall on the chair that usually houses the duffel, and they swivel over to Lydia sitting primly on the bed, a light smirk at her mouth. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"If you wanted me naked, you could have just asked."

As if getting him naked has _ever_ been that simple.

"Please," Lydia says instead, rolling her eyes.

Stiles hitches his towel up a little bit and fixes a steady stare on Lydia's face. She remains unruffled in her determination.

"You gonna tell me where my clothes are, or do I have to call a camp counselor in here?"

"They're outside," Lydia says, gesturing vaguely. "Probably in the grass somewhere."

"Fine," Stiles says, heading over to his dresser to get the roomkey. He realizes it's gone before he even opens the bottom drawer. "Oh," he says.

"Oh," Lydia mimics lightly.

"What do you want?"

"I want to leave the room."

"Hard pass."

"Okay," Lydia says. "You can be naked for the rest of your life. _Or_ you can leave the room and get your clothes and I'll lock the door behind you and not let you back in. Absolutely your choice."

He lets out a grunt of annoyance.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere!" Lydia says, throwing her hands up. "We've been cooped up here with each other for _days_ , Stiles, aren't you going crazy?"

It's too late to take it back, but at least his mouth slides sideways into a sardonic smile.

"Oh, Lydia. You know I already am."

She avoids his gaze for the first time since he got out of the shower, suddenly unable to see the eyes that she loves so much glinting at her in ironic amusement.

"If you give me your word, I'll be _kind_ enough to let you back into the room after we get back from wherever we go. If not, you can stay here and be cold."

"Jesus _fuck_ , Lydia," grumbles Stiles, before wrenching the door open and slamming it shut behind himself, effectively locking himself out.

For the first time in a long time, Lydia is alone.

Her chest flutters a little bit with the excitement of going _out_ , of leaving this room, and she immediately rushes to her suitcase, wrenching it open to begin surveying her clothes. She isn't sure where Stiles had gotten all his money, but she had bought up multiple stores and forced him to pay for it, and now she tugs makeup, hair products, heels, and dresses out of her bag, trying to decide which would be the most appropriate.

By the time Stiles gets back with his clothes, she's already settled on an outfit. Unfortunately for him, she hasn't even started her hair yet. She stands in front of the bathroom mirror and, for the first time in days, methodically and lovingly applies makeup to her face, watching her pallid features begin to glow with fabricated happiness.

She feels _relaxed_ and hopeful and something else, something that makes her pulse pick up. At first, she doesn't know what it is, but then she's in the process of curling her hair and she almost drops the iron when she realizes that she's creating her favorite date hair with the curling wand.

It's too late to change it, so she tells herself that it's a coincidence and leaves the bathroom with only a tinge of annoyance curling in her stomach.

When she opens the door, Stiles is sitting on the floor, playing a game on his phone, looking bored out of his mind. He's wearing a black henley and dark jeans, which makes Lydia think that he's trying to punish her for something, but then he sees her and his eyes widen and suddenly she wonders if maybe she's doing the same thing to him.

She's wearing a white minidress, with spaghetti straps that are hidden by the leather jacket she has on. Her black tights vanish into high heeled boots, and her beachy hair frames her face in a way that is perfectly messy. Usually, when she goes on a date, she doesn't like wearing red lipstick because of kissing, but as there's no chance of that tonight, Lydia had applied it generously.

"Do you have the key?" Stiles asks thickly, after taking a few moments to stare at her. Lydia nods silently. "Okay," he says, launching himself off of the floor. "Let's go, I guess."

His hair is still wet, and it flops into his eyes as they walk down the street towards the center of the small town that their bed and breakfast is located. Despite the fact that the air is chilly, Stiles doesn't seem bothered by the fact that he's in a thin shirt. Lydia thinks that maybe he's just used to being uncomfortable at this point, like _she_ is used to never getting what she wants.

If they had lived in another world, without supernatural creatures that haunt her nightmares to this day, Lydia would utilize the brightly lit shops in the town as an opportunity to scream for help and escape her captor. But Stiles isn't her captor, he's one of the people in this world who she is closest to, and if she left he would just find her.

Anyways, the person who she would call is _Scott_ , and he had been okay with all of this. He had let Stiles take her.

"I need a drink," Lydia tells him abruptly. "Now."

"Sure," Stiles mumbles, curving sharply to the left down a stone side street. "I think there's a few bars in town."

They end up at a shitty little pub with abrasively green signs out front, lit by flickering lanterns. The signs announce it to be called The Bramble Pub, and Stiles opens the door for Lydia, placing his hand on her back to guide her through the entrance. For just a moment, she allows herself to wallow in how normal it could have felt to have his hand pressing against her back.

Then she pulls up to the bar and orders a whiskey double, letting out a snort of laughter when Stiles orders the same.

"What?" he asks, clearly bothered.

"You? Whiskey?"

"I can drink whiskey," he says defensively.

"You realize that it doesn't come with a maraschino cherry, right?" teases Lydia, not even realizing she's doing it until his eyes light up with the simmer of their familiar banter.

"Excuse me, barkeep?" Stiles calls out, flagging down the bar tender. "Could I get my whiskey with cherries, please? Thanks." The bartender gives him an odd look, but obliges, sliding the drink over to a triumphantly grinning Stiles. "I can't _believe_ how wrong you were, Lydia."

She snorts, accepting her own drink from the bartender before walking over to one of the small, two person tables in the corner. Here, hidden in the shadows, she can quietly sip her drink and watch the locals.

There's people playing cards a few tables over, and people playing pool rather loudly in the opposite corner. A group is gathered around the dartboard, hollering at each other excitedly, and it makes Lydia ache. She sees the pack once a month, and it's usually just like that. They all go to a bar together and Liam, Scott, and Malia have accuracy contests with darts. Malia almost always loses because she's too impatient to line up her shot properly. Liam almost always loses because he's trying _too_ hard. Scott, always cool and collected, is normally the winner, and the other two grumpily buy his drinks for the rest of the night.

"You're smiling," comes Stiles' hushed voice, and when Lydia turns to him, he's smiling too. "Why're you smiling?"

"I'm thinking about the pack."

Stiles nods thoughtfully, lifting his whiskey to his lips and gulping down a bit too fast. He pulls a face. Lydia hides her smile behind her glass.

"How are they?" Stiles asks when he's finished coughing.

"The pack?" asks Lydia. "Mmm. They're good."

"Anything crazy happen while I was gone?"

"No," replies Lydia sarcastically. "Nothing's happened for six years. We've remained totally stagnant."

"Be serious."

"Oh, you wanted me to be serious?"

He laughs into his drink.

"God, shut up."

"Was it shut up or tell you what's going on with the pack? I can't do both." This time, Stiles just stares at her pointedly until she breaks. "Kira and Mason are both married."

"Shit. Really?"

"Mhm," nods Lydia. "Kira's pregnant, actually."

"Shit," Stiles says again. "How was the wedding?"

" _Cheesy_. And long. The vows for both of them were about fifteen minutes _each_."

"Jesus. Glad I missed it."

"No." Her voice is soft. "You shouldn't be."

He looks at her for a second, then downs his drink in one long drag and shoves his chair back to get another one.

This time, he returns with another whiskey, which he pushes towards Lydia, and a vodka cranberry for himself. She cocks her eyebrow at him.

"Don't comment," he says in response.

They sit in silence for a long time after that, but unlike the stench of it that had permeated every moment in the last week, this silence is a little more companionable.

Except Lydia is getting tipsy very quickly, and instead of looking at the couples who are pressed close to each other at the small, circular tables at the pub, she wants to look at Stiles. She swivels her eyes over at him, narrowing them intently, and he gives her a questioning look before she opens her mouth and closes it again.

"Where'd you get the money to pay for all this?" asks Lydia, raising her glass to indicate what she's talking about.

Stiles squints at her.

"I was under the impression you didn't want to know anything about my life."

"Tell me," she snaps, impatient, and Stiles raises his hands in defense. "You live in a piece of shit apartment with uncomfortable furniture and scratchy sheets, and then you come here and money hasn't seemed like an object the entire trip. So how. Are you. Paying for this?"

Stiles takes a dainty sip of his vodka cranberry.

"I kill people," he says conversationally, "and then I take their assets."

There's a twinkle in his eye that makes her nauseous. Lydia chooses to ignore this, for the time being.

"And how do you decide who to kill?" she asks, lifting her chin boldly.

Stiles raps his knuckles against the table, tongue in his cheek as he sizes her up for a moment. Then he shrugs.

"Okay," he says. "I started off going after creatures who were going after you guys. Packs, flocks, flanges, the like."

"Flanges?"

"You know. Like, a giant group of baboons."

"Oh, I know. I'm just wondering why you were using it."

"Supernatural baboons," Stiles tells her, nodding mock-gravely. "Very lethal."

"You're trying to distract me," Lydia notes, challenging him.

"Tipsy Lydia is perceptive."

"I'm not tispy."

"Tipsy Lydia is also a liar."

She ignores him.

"And then, Stiles? What happened?"

He rubs his thumb around the rim of his glass, collecting the sugar on it before sticking it in his mouth and sucking the sweetness off of it.

"Actually," he says musingly. "I think you owe me an answer."

"What?" she responds, disbelief coloring her tone.

"I gave you one, after all."

"That's… not how this works."

"Why not?"

"You kidnapped me."

"And brought you to _Scotland_."

"I don't owe you anything."

"But I bought you a _drink_ ," he jokes.

Lydia sighs. Looks over to the side at one of the couples making eyes at each other across the table and hopes that they don't break apart as tremendously as this world seems to want her life to.

"Fine," she says, impatiently. "What do you want to know?"

Stiles leans forward, elbows on the table as he looks into her eyes, brown meeting green in a way that should feel murky but simply feels settled.

"Does he fuck you as good as I did?" Stiles asks quietly, smirk playing across his lips.

She jerks back in her chair, shocked.

"Screw you, Stiles."

His smile grows.

"That's not really an answer."

"Really?" Lydia says flatly. "You really want to ask me about Carter? Of all people?"

His face contorts in annoyance when he hears the name, but he doesn't cut her off. Instead, he waits until she finishes talking before he looks down at his hands where they rest on the table and says, "I guess I'd rather hear your voice than feel safe."

There's that word again. Safe. Safety. The least and most important thing, depending on who you ask. Stiles had spent their childhood jumping off the deep end, away from safety, right into her. With absolutely no chance of reciprocation, he had given himself all the way to her. He had risked life and limb for a girl who paid him absolutely no mind. Nothing about him— not his body, not his heart— had been safe from Lydia Martin.

She hugs her heart close to her chest every day like it is her security blanket against their world, yet Stiles continues to leave his dripping bloodily in his hands— still thumping, somehow still unbroken— offering it to her to take.

"Stiles," she begins hesitantly, but suddenly his eyes are darting away from her face and he is looking ahead with slitted, suspicious eyes. "Stiles?"

"Get up," he says, voice muted. "Get up now."

Normally, she would eviscerate him for giving him an order like that, despite her being his kidnapee. However, the seriousness in his eyes and the way his entire body has just become rigid makes Lydia slowly push her chair back, getting up and following Stiles out of the pub and into the cold evening.

Her black boots clack against the stone streets as they walk. She sees Stiles glance down at them, licking his lower lip before tugging it into his mouth, worry tugging at his brows.

"What?" she whispers.

"Your shoes. They're loud."

Lydia glances behind them.

"But nobody's following us."

He grips her arm, glaring behind the two of them as they walk hastily down the street, hiding from the streetlamps. Stiles stops a few times, pressing a finger to his lips and cocking an ear so that he can listen, but then he shakes his head and continues to pull her back towards their B&B.

They're halfway there before anything happens.

A gunshot rings through the air, violent and loud, and Stiles ducks to avoid it, swearing profusely as he dips down.

"Shit, shit, shit," he mutters, grabbing a gun out of his waistband and firing it in the direction of their assailant. "Lydia, hide."

"I'm not leaving you," she argues, voice irked. "They're trying to kill you to get to _me_."

"Did you not just hear yourself? They're trying to _get to you_."

Another bullet sails through the air, missing them. It comes from a different location, and Lydia realizes with a leap of fear that there are two of them. She doesn't need to tell Stiles. He already knows, she thinks, because he grabs Lydia's hand and begins running in earnest. Stiles' breath is coming out in quick spurts as he sprints down the street, dragging her along with him. He fires behind himself, misses, and lets out an annoyed groan as he shoots again.

"Stiles, just run!" Lydia yells, but he shakes his head.

"I gotta know how they found us. I need to find out, okay?"

It's not okay, not at all, but he shoves her body into an alley and she falls to her knees on the stone ground, scraping and bruising them terribly as Stiles takes off into the night. It's so odd to be manhandled by Stiles that she has to take a moment to catch her breath and process the pain. But by the time she's ready to stand up again, a new type of agony is ripping its way through her body.

She wants to scream. She has to scream.

He's going to die. Stiles is going to die.

It doesn't usually feel this bad— maybe it's because it's so close, but somehow she knows, she just _knows_ that Stiles' life is in danger. She can hear sounds of fighting outside, of punches and kicks and grunts of fury, and the nausea that rises in her is completely supernatural. It tugs at her head, tearing it apart, and her brain becomes nothing but strings, strings, red and green strings, stretched across Stiles' bedroom, wall to wall to wall to wall.

Dry heaving, Lydia crawls over to the corner of the alley on her hands and knees and tries to bite back the scream. It's not to not draw attention to herself— she's beyond that now. If she screams, she's going to kill someone. She knows she will. The only time her head has hurt this astronomically was when she was seventeen-years-old and had been certain that she was about to die and take down everyone she loved as well.

Lydia hadn't killed Stiles last time, and she isn't going to this time. She isn't going to let herself.

She dry heaves, over and over again, like her body is trying to reject the pain that splits her brain in half. Or maybe simply rejecting the idea of that pain being for _Stiles_. When she isn't dry heaving, she covers her mouth with both her hands, sitting up on her knees and squeezing her eyes shut as she listens to the gunshots and grunts ring through the air in tandem.

Right now, she needs something. There's something she can do, something Deaton talked to her about when she was scared, something that she'd practiced and read about, and she's too dizzy to think of it right now, but she knows it will help, knows it will matter if she can just _think_ about it.

In the street, Stiles roars out.

Stiles.

Anchor. She needs an anchor. She needs to anchor herself to something; to bring herself back.

If she focuses herself, she can _just_ hear Stiles' labored breathing. She wouldn't be able to if she were human, but she can now, and she wraps her brain around it, around the breaths that gush in and out of his body. Stiles opens his mouth and his diaphragm contracts, giving his lungs more volume. The pressure difference between the outside and his lungs causes air to rush in. Incoming oxygen diffuses into red blood cells and binds to hemoglobin, replacing the carbon dioxide which diffuses out into the lungs, and the diaphragm relaxes, pushing the air back out. The oxygen enriched blood flows to his heart, which beats and pumps blood through his body. Then he walks and runs and talks and jokes and loves her, and all of it starts all over again, every minute of every day.

There's a sense of serenity washing over Lydia right now. She rises from the ground, ignoring the way the cold air pokes and prods at the open scrapes on her knees. Slowly, Lydia walks out of the alley, gathering power from her stomach and letting it drift to the forefront of her throat. It tickles at the back of her tonsils like pepper, crackling against her sensitive skin.

One of the men is now a body, lying on the ground, blood dripping lazily onto the pavement. The other man is standing directly behind Stiles, but it's easy for Lydia to push him away, using a small cry from her lungs to sweep Stiles to the side so that she can focus her powers on the man working for The Collector.

"Lydia!" Stiles says warningly, but she ignores him, finally dragging her scream all the way to the forefront of her palate and letting it rip violently through her entire body. It bubbles up, and she uses it to shove the man against the entrance to the alleyway to the right, his head cracking against the stone before he crumples to the ground, motionless.

Her lips are parted slightly as she stares at the limp body on the ground as though it is a mere curiosity; a documentary she's been meaning to watch; a piece of modern art drawn by Kira that she's attempting to derive concept from.

Then Stiles' hand touches her waist, and the cool serenity inside of her is knocked out of the way by long, warm fingertips nudging against her skin through the fabric of her dress.

She gasps, coughing slightly, her eyes focusing themselves as her mind follows suit. Lydia looks up at Stiles, her mouth hung wide, her eyes round and terrified as tears fill them.

"Is he dead?"

Stiles licks his bottom lip, shaking his head.

"I dunno, Lyds," he says gently, voice suggesting he's talking her off of a ledge.

"Stiles…" she murmurs, and then she blinks and steps away from him, something new building up in her body: anger. All over again. After all they've been through, all that's changed, _nothing_ has changed. He left her. He _left_ her, and he almost died, he almost wasted all that fucking time. "I _hate_ you," she spits out, trembling. "I _hate_ you, Stiles Stilinski."

"Lydia." His voice is harrowed as he moves towards her, trying to reach out, to touch her, but Lydia darts backwards again, holding her hands out in warning.

"Don't you dare," she snarls. "Don't you try to make this better, Stiles."

"Okay," he says softly, placating her. "Okay."

"You go after these men, there's _no_ chance you can win by yourself, you push me into that alley, you _never_ ask me for my permission, you _never_ give me a chance to defend myself, you leave and leave and leave and I didn't know—" she's sobbing now, tears dripping into her open mouth as she heaves out her words, spitting them from somewhere deep in her stomach, letting them wrench her open. "I didn't know if you were alive, or dead for a fucking _year_ , Stiles, do you understand how that felt? And it turns out that you're going around murdering people? You _left_ because you murdered someone, and then you just… _kept_ murdering people? What the _fuck_ is that?"

"I was trying to protect you." Stiles shouts back, defending himself, but Lydia shakes her head emphatically, eyes wild.

"No," she hisses. " _No_. You don't get to play that card. You left. I loved you, and you left me. You _chose_ not to be with me, do you understand that? You chose to leave me. You chose this— everything that's happening today, it's happening because of you."

"Do you think I wanted to spend all this time without you?" he replies hotly. "Do you think I wanted to spend any day of my life not seeing you or talking to you? I missed you every day, Lydia. Every fucking day. You're this unhealed hole inside of me, and I thought I was going to have to live with that for the rest of my life, and now you're here and I don't care that I have to shove you into an alley to get you out of the way. You died with your face in my hands once, remember? I'm not watching you die again. I'm not fucking doing that."

"Don't even pretend you care," says Lydia seethingly. "Don't you dare pretend. You don't give a shit about anything— nothing. You are _reckless_ and obsessive and completely inhuman, and you don't care about _anything_."

His body sags, form deflating as tears drip down his nose, onto the stones. When he speaks, his voice is hushed, reserved. Reverential.

"I care about you. All I've ever wanted is you."

In a second, she's flung herself across the pavement, directly towards him, and begins beating her fists against his chest, heaving out sobs.

"You had me! You fucking had me!" She punctuates each word with a blow to his chest, and Stiles just stands there with his arms by his side, letting her bruise his vulnerable flesh. "You had me and you _gave up_."

A few warm, furious tears drift down her cheeks, feeling too soft given the hurricane brewing inside of her chest. He's destroying her. He's destroyed her.

Finally, his hands slide up her arms and catch her wrists, wrapping strong fingers around them. Carefully, he raises one of her fists to his mouth and brushes his lips against the knuckles. Lydia's body shudders out more tears as he raises the other fist, kissing it as well.

"'m sorry," he mumbles.

She leans her head forward, placing it on his chest, letting her tears drip onto his shirt.

"You almost died," Lydia whimpers, helpless. "You can't leave me. You can't leave me again, Stiles. You can't leave."

"I won't," he murmurs soothingly, stroking her hair. "I won't."

When she looks up at him, he brushes a tear away with his thumb, and that's when she feels herself drifting into another moment with him.

Because they're so close. Closer than they've been in six years. Closer than they are when they're wrapped up in each other's bodies at night while they sleep. Closer than any gravitational pull could bring them.

He's going to kiss her, Lydia thinks. He's going to kiss her, and she's going to let him, because she needs it so badly that it knocks through her bones, making her teeth chatter. Lydia blinks slowly as she fixes her eyes on his mouth, warm and inviting and so familiar. She can remember what he tastes like.

She remembers everything, despite how hard she's tried to forget.

"We should go," Stiles whispers, tugging her mercilessly out of her head, and Lydia blinks in confusion, her heart sinking into her stomach.

"We should?" she asks, voice breathy.

Stiles lets go of the wrist he's still holding.

"Yeah. We should."

* * *

They watch _Friends_ for the next three days.

Stiles doesn't laugh. He doesn't sleep. Sometimes, he mouths the words along with the characters.

Lydia would know.

She's paying attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for the long hiatus, but thank you so much for waiting! We wanted to get some of the story done before we started posting chapters again. We weren't sure when we were gonna post this one, but we decided to screw it and go ahead and do it. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to Rachel and Jade for being incredible beta readers and incredible human beings. You make me laugh, your keen observations make me cry every time, and your love and affection gives me the confidence I need to post a chapter like this. 
> 
> We really hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned for next week. It's gonna be kind of a big one. *wink face*
> 
> Happy New Year!


	8. Camellia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camellia, or Camellia Japonica.
> 
> Symbolizes the divine. Often used in religious and sacred ceremonies.
> 
> Desire or passion.

She wakes him. If by chance he ever does fall asleep, this remains a constant; he is woken by her. Sometimes it’s by her presence, sometimes the lack thereof. 

This time it’s from her voice. Stiles can tell she’s trying to keep quiet by the way she whispers, breathy and weighted with secrecy. He cracks his eyes infinitesimally to inspect her. It’s not yet dawn, and the room is suspended in the periwinkle haze of early morning. The curtains hang heavy, velveteen and thick. Lydia sits on a pinstriped armchair by them, wrapped in the white robe provided by the Bed and Breakfast, gazing out the window. 

Stiles thinks he could live a thousand lifetimes and never get over the sight of her. He watches as she murmurs into the phone pressed to her ear.

“I’m sorry. I never intended to be away this long. I wasn’t expecting this, otherwise I would have had the decency to tell you in person.” She whispers, and he follows the movement of her delicate hand as she brushes away the single tear rolling down her cheek. Just one. “You’re right. It isn’t fair to you, you’re right.”

He holds his breath.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, then pauses. Faintly, he can hear the voice on the other line raising, rambling to a whiney, electronic frequency. She doesn’t respond, but nods instead, as if the caller can see her. It makes her limp curls tumble over her bare shoulder from where her robe slips, falling down her back. 

And then she says it. “It just was never meant to be. I think we both knew that, in the end. You’ve been very kind to me, Carter. Someday, someone will value that brand of kindness.” 

This time there is no yelling on the other side of the phone. The only violence in the room is from his heart, slamming itself over and over again against his chest. Lydia stares and stares and stares.

“Keep the ring…. and take care of yourself, darling.” 

And then she hangs up the phone. 

Stiles waits; every muscle in his body, tensed and ready. He waits for Lydia to sigh. He waits for her to let out a broken whimper, or for her head to drop to her hands. But she does none of these things.

Instead she watches the sun rise.  
  


* * *

 

  
She’s lighter. Less weighted. It’s a noticeable improvement on her part, and Stiles can’t help but revel in the presence of a Less-Burdened-Lydia. Even when they returned their keys to the woman at the front desk of the Bed & Breakfast. Even when the concierge wished them a ‘joyous honeymoon.’ Even when their train to London was delayed by half an hour, and she spat and bickered with the ticket attendant, flipping her hair and glaring accusingly, she was less encumbered.

He tries to smother the blossoming, warm feeling in his chest; the impossibility that this sunnier Lydia is the direct result of calling off her engagement. 

He fails. 

Hard.

“What are you smirking at,” she sniffs as they take their seats across from each other, primly crossing her legs and pursing her lips. But there it is. That lightness. An unclouded look in her eyes, like she’s in on a joke that he’s yet to hear. 

It makes Stiles grin, and he runs a hand up to sheepishly ruffle his hair. “Nothing. Hand me your bag, Lyds.” 

She complies, and he opens up the storage compartment above their heads, taking her heavy suitcase and hoisting it with a mild grunt. He feels his shirt ride up a bit with his effort, so he uses one arm to pull and readjust the bag, while the other trails down the skin of his stomach. He feels around his lower abdomen, giving his warm skin a rub before finally finding the aforementioned fabric and tugging it down. 

When he slams the lid shut and his gaze goes to her, she looks visibly shaken. 

“Cat got your tongue, Martin?” He inquires, quirking an eyebrow. Lydia licks her lips, sucking one into her mouth. Her cheeks are prettily pinkened. It’s very curious. Her gestures stir something inside of him. It’s all very familiar, though he can’t put a finger on it. She still hasn’t said a word.

He takes his seat, stretching his legs out, allowing them lazily fall into an open position. And then it happens. Her eyes go directly to his crotch. Suddenly he’s holding his breath, waiting for it, and yup. There it is. She sticks out her tongue, trailing it across the fullness of her lower lip. Her deep dimples form, her eyes glaze, and Stiles’ heart stops as she gives away her tell without even realizing. 

Lydia is turned on. 

He’s seen this look thousands of times on her face. It’s the look of her trying to contain herself without jumping him. 

She wants to fuck him.

Then she blinks and snaps her head to the window, forcing herself to study the gray British countryside instead. 

Despite the six year difference and the mystery of what they were both up to during that empty period, some things remain untouched by time. 

Maybe things really aren’t so fundamentally different now. Sure they’ve changed. Grown into different people, but perhaps it wasn’t really ‘ _ growth _ ,’ per se. 

Stiles ruminates on the fact that Lydia looks the same and acts the same, but there’s something in that closeted part of her. She hasn’t grown. She’s regressed. She’s chosen to reside in her impenetrable fortress once more. She’s chosen to commit her life to a man who didn’t have her heart. She’s chosen to keep almost everyone at arm's length for six years. 

Maybe, during those dark years, he was not the only one living with ineludible loneliness.

It makes him want to fall apart right in front of her, so he clears his mind and thinks about himself instead. He’s good at that, being selfish. 

He’s the most changed, out of the two of them. He looks a little different, sees the world a little differently. Carries his barbaric, brutal past and present like an insignia on his heart. He doesn’t think anyone has to look too hard to see it. The women he fucked saw it. The villains he fought ran from it. It’s an ugly, open wound. And it’s throbbing.

He knows now that he’s regressed too. Transformed. But somewhere in those six years, he took a wrong turn. Several. And the first one started with Lydia Martin. 

Yet here they are. Brought together again, and sure, the circumstances are less than desirable, but they’ve been brought back to each other’s sides. Solving mysteries, running and planning. 

Strained or not, it’s companionship, and with Lydia’s phone call, he feels an indescribable alignment. Like things, despite how desolate they seem to appear, are slowly falling into place.   
  


* * *

  
Stiles leaves the compartment to make a call. He walks past the faces of strangers on the train, old women and mothers, babies and exhausted looking business men. None of them knowing a shadow walks among them. Or that from their bones, to the boorishness of their feelings, everything about them is fragile; that there are beings,  _ things _ in this world, that are considerably less breakable than them.

He finds a semi-unoccupied place to make his call. 

“The Montague on the Gardens, this is Flannery speaking,” a voice chirps out.  

“I’d like to book a room for tonight,” he mumbles carelessly into the phone, and turns his head to watch the trees roll by in a misty haze. The movement causes deja vu. Makes him remember Lydia quietly watching the sun rise only just this morning. “Preferably one with a nice view.”

“Single or double bed?”

...She is going to fucking kill him.

“Single.”  

 

He makes one more call. His number is private, unlisted, but he’s sure for the next call, it would be identifiable, regardless. He punches in the number he knows by heart, but hasn’t dialed for six long years.

Scott picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

Stiles holds his breath. 

Then, finally, “...Stiles? Stiles is this you?”

“Hey Scotty,” he croaks out. 

“Hey man,” Scott’s warm voice washes over him, familiar and overwhelming. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Is she doing alright? Does she hate me?” 

Stiles closes his eyes, huffing out a chuckle. “She’ll live.”

“She will,” Scott agrees emphatically, and the phone crackles from the long-distance connection. “She will because you promised me that.” 

Across the compartment, a baby wails. The floor rumbles. A man snores, whistling through his nose. 

“When will I see you, Stiles? When are you bringing her home?”

“I don’t know, Scott.”

There is silence on the line. When Scott finally speaks, it sounds settled. “I’ll see you both soon.”

Stiles nods his head, knowing that he won’t be able to see, but that it wouldn’t matter anyway. 

“Be careful. And Stiles?”

“Yeah Scott?”

“Call more. I miss my best friend.”

Stiles swallows, nods once more, and ends the call. 

 

Lydia’s looking at him when he returns. Sometimes her gaze is so perceptive it’s impossible to tell if she already knows what he’s thinking because she’s a banshee, because his face is an open book, or because she just  _ gets _ him.

It makes his eyes shift and his skin prickle, so he purposely tries to throw her off.

“Wanna play strip poker? I’ve got a deck in my carry on.” 

Lydia, for her part, rolls her eyes to the ceiling, and they stay there.

“I’d rather not have another lake house debacle.” 

“Oh,” Stiles grins and flops down unceremoniously across from her. “Did you mean debacle or debauchery?”

Lydia’s eyes are still on the ceiling, but her mouth quirks. “Who says I don’t mean both, Stilinski?” 

It’s so taboo, talking about past exploits with her. It’s dangerous territory, but then again, they’ve never been cowards. He’s pushing his luck with her, bringing up memories. But he wants to remember. There was a time when she had forgotten them all. Stiles knows there are days she wants so badly to forget again. He won’t let her. 

“God, that night.”

“It was a full moon, and it was so bright and the water was so black that it looked like there were two moons in the sky.” She says it without looking at him. She says it like she’s in a church, whispering out her sins in a confessional. 

“When we chugged the warm beers.”

“When Liam fell down the stairs in front of everyone.” 

“When you told me you wanted to marry me,” he says. 

He knows it will sting, but he watches his words smack into Lydia. She doesn’t react, but she turns to him, as if letting him proceed. Waiting to see where this is going. Stiles wants to see where it goes too. “You were between my legs, and you were drunk. You looked _ so _ pretty. And that’s when you said it. Do you remember?”

“Of course.” Lydia says. It’s short, and empty. A transaction between them, nothing more. 

He wants her to break. He wants to crack her open and leave her bleeding out, filling the space between them. He’d rather it hurt than let the gap remain. He doesn’t want it to be empty anymore. 

“It knocked the breath out of me,” he continues, and he feels breathless now too. Lydia’s face remains impassive but the air is charged, her shoulders too tense to be uncaring. In an almost out of body moment, he realizes they’re both slowly leaning in. “Fuck, Lydia. I’ve spent all my life thinking about that. You were wearing red that night. Your lips were red too when you wrapped them around me.” 

His heart is pounding. Lydia doesn’t speak, but her eyes are locked in on him, devouring every word. It should be poison, but when they spill out, they taste like honey. 

“Fucking loved it when you sucked me off. Something about you on your knees in front of me, when you have all this power...it kills me, Lydia.” 

Lydia is so still, but then she nods, accepting and digesting his words.

“Yeah,” she breathes, throaty and weighted. “You like me on my knees. You've had me on them for six years.”

He knows it’s irrational, but part of him, the egocentric part that always seems to win, flashes back to him at fifteen, drunk underneath a starless sky, prattling on to Scott about beautiful strawberry blondes and how being alone hurt more than anything. His brain keeps going. Stiles at thirteen, palms sweaty, hair falling in his eyes, saying no to every girl that asked to dance with him because he wanted it to be  _ her _ . Stiles, age ten, unable to concentrate on his math problems because he can’t stop gaping at the curls in her hair as they shimmer in the sunlight.

He fucking knows he’s ruined her. But he also knows a thing or two about being at the mercy of another person for a very, very long time.

“So what now,” he asks, and it shakes out of him. “What do we do now, Lydia?”

She’s quiet. And then, “We stop running.”

He doesn’t know if she means away from the The Collector or from the truth, but both seem like the right answer at the right time.

When she speaks again it’s to the foggy window, and with a sad smile. “I was so brave when I was seventeen,” she whispers. “I was so, so brave. I didn’t know how to protect myself, or how to fight. But I still put myself in danger, because it was necessary. Needed, even. God,” she laughs dryly. “I almost died so many times. And every time, I couldn’t stop thinking about the boy who said he’d go out of his mind if that happened. I remember lying in hospital bed after hospital bed, replaying it. I didn’t know back then, when you told me. I didn’t know how you felt. And then, one day, I did.”

She looks up at him, eyes blazing and wet. He stares back. “I tried so hard to bury that brave girl who loved you. Tried to drown her in the monotony of a boring, normal life. But then I think of senior year, when I was being torn apart from wanting you. Missing you. The man I never remembered meeting but somehow, miraculously, loved. How much we sacrificed to get you back after you were taken. And then, you just left. You just...you fucking chose….” She waves a hand in front of her, as if trying to push the words out of the air and onto the floor before bringing the same hand to her trembling lips, like covering them would hide the evidence of her agony. 

He reaches across the space between them, grabbing the hand sitting in her lap and wrapping it in his own. “Shit, Lydia. There’s so much I....things I can’t explain, or p-put into words right now, I just.” He takes a deep breath. “It was my choice, but once I realized that it was my choice to make, it wasn’t a choice anymore.”

Lydia squeezes his hand, eyes imploring. “Then let’s make a choice. I want to get back to my life. I don’t want to live in fear, anymore. I want to fight. We’ve always been able to figure it out, so let’s do it.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “Okay, if that’s what you want, okay.”

“We  _ can _ do it, Stiles.”

He squeezes her hand and his gaze drops to the floor. He lets out a dark chuckle. “I’ve been doing this for years, Lydia. Tracking The Collector. Trying to gain information, infiltrate. Picking off their circle one by one. I haven’t even gotten close to winning.”

Lydia studies him. “So what makes you say yes now? What makes you okay with going back to fight when you were so adamant we leave?”

The answer is simple. “You want it. I know I have a chance this time, because you’re with me.” 

Stiles watches her eyes flutter, allowing his words to wash over her. 

He almost tells her he’s spent every day until now, counting the seconds; the bottomless cycle of leaving his apartment and not expecting to return, followed by going to bed and not expecting to wake up. He bites his tongue instead. 

“We’ll need to come up with a plan,” she says, biting her lip. “We’ll plan, and then we’ll prepare. When you teach me to use a gun we can gather others for hel--”

“No.”

Its abruptness startles both of them.

“...What?”

“No, Lydia. No guns.”

In a very un-Lydia like fashion, she snorts comically. He’s immediately reminded of his own habit to do that, and his stomach swoops at her adopted mannerism. “Don’t be ridiculous. We need guns, Stiles. You use a gun every day.”

“No,” he says, dropping her hand to shake his head. “I mean, I’m not going to teach you how to use a gun.”

“...You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m really fucking not.”

“I need to know how to defend myself, Stiles!” She exclaims. “I need to know how to protect us! You’re always handling guns! Why not teach me to handle one too!”

He runs his hands through his hair, tugging in frustration. “It just--You already have powers, Lydia!” He thrusts a hand out, gesturing to her. “You can use your banshee abilities to defend yourself. You don’t need a fucking gun.”

She stares at him in disbelief. “...That makes, absolutely,  _ zero _ goddamn sense, Stiles.”

He huffs a laugh, rolling his neck. “You don’t know, Lydia...you just don’t...you don’t get….”

“What. I don’t get what, Stiles.”

His knee bounces. He bites his thumb. He looks out the window. He tries so hard to come up with an answer that’s not the truth, but his silence is an answer in itself. 

“Fuck. You.” 

They both freeze. She spat it out, like arsenic on her tongue. They glare at each other in weighted silence and then,

“...Right.” Stiles murmurs, and crossing his arms, turns his gaze out the window once more. “Right.”   
  


* * *

  
The opulence of the hotel room does nothing to lift his mood. He’s single handedly dismantled the free spiritedness of Lydia’s earlier demeanor to ruins. She quirks a brow at the swanky room, and pointedly stares at the single, ginormous bed taking up the center, but makes no comment. 

He’s in a surly mood as well. Not the glinting gold accents, or that there’s an actual, porcelain clawfoot tub in the bathroom next to a fucking bidet, can distract him from the fact that Lydia wants to shoot a gun.

She drops her bags unceremoniously next to the bed with a violent ‘thud,’ and wordlessly crosses the room to the balcony overlooking a sprawling garden. 

He watches her in stony silence as the sun begins to set, turning everything, the room, her body, sleepy and golden. Roughly, he shoves his own bags to the floor. The silence lingers.   
  


* * *

  
It’s nighttime outside when he opens his eyes. He’s still in the same position he remembers being in before he dozed off; stretched out on his back, hands behind his head. Lydia, however, is no longer on the balcony. She is perched on a lounge across the room waiting for him, legs crossed gracefully, gun in hand.

“What the fuck, Lydia,” he hisses, jumping up and moving across the room to grab it from her. She lets him take it, and he disassembles it right in front of her in less than fifteen seconds.

“You really don’t trust me with it, huh? After everything we’ve been through, and you don’t think I can handle it,” she snaps, getting up to pace the room.

“You want to shoot a gun.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to be the one to give that to you.”

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes. 

The thing is, he fucking knows it makes sense for her to use a gun. She should know how defend herself. She  _ deserves _ that. 

Stiles pictures her with his revolver gripped in her small, delicate, pretty hands. It physically hurts him; makes his stomach feel both squirrely and tight, all at once. 

His eyes burn behind their lids, as his vision swims and suddenly he’s nineteen and an omega with half it’s head beaten in babbles bloodily at his feet. 

_ Please _ , the werewolf gags.  _ Please _ . The first time he ever used a gun. The first time he emptied it into a body. Six years ago on a summer night, when there was nothing but brain matter on his pants and a puddle of blood like an oil spill. There were no stars. No moon. Just an omega, a lost cause, and a fucking gun. 

He knew there was no coming back from that, just as he knows it now. He knows what it’s like to pull a trigger and end someone’s life. 

He doesn’t want that for her. 

He doesn’t want her to become him. 

“You’re so good, Lydia. You’re  _ so _ good. And I just...can’t fucking give this to you.”

She’s lividly thrumming; a string wound tight. “Well then,” she bites, low and dangerous. “What can you give me, Stilinski?”

He keeps his eyes trained on her as he slides to the floor, kneeling before her. He gives her this: beautiful symmetry. On his knees for her; the girl he loves.

It visibly knocks the wind out of her. Her eyes hold a shaken, familiar alarm. It’s the look she gave him when they were teenagers, and he was unwinding red yarn from around her finger.

Stiles lets her take him in, vulnerable and bare. He should feel uncomfortable in this moment of nakedness; weak or foolish, somehow. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel any of those things. All he feels is his heart crashing wildly and erratically in the hollow cage of his chest. It doesn’t matter what she sees when she looks at him. He doesn’t care.

He just cares that she knows. 

He wants her to know. 

Lydia moves slow, tiptoeing until she stands before him. His eyes stay trained straight ahead until they align somewhere near her navel. 

And then, ever so gently, she wordlessly lifts the airy fabric of her skirt. 

He watches the light, white fabric slide over the creamy skin of her thighs. Inching higher, and higher, until he can see a wink of the silk covering her sex. Red. 

He lets out a breath through his nose, low and labored. He doesn’t hear her breathe at all. 

Stiles’ head slowly droops forward, until his forehead rests on the flat plane of her abdomen. His fingertips trail along the lean lines of her exposed legs, traveling until they come to rest across her bare thighs, spread and stretching. She exhales when they anchor into her, gripping her skin mercilessly. He breathes raggedly against her stomach, in unison with the rising and falling of Lydia’s chest. 

Lydia keeps her skirt hiked.

He nuzzles his head into her, rocking it back and forth across her body. 

_ She wants him to touch her. _

Six years of not touching her, and he’s dizzy with the want. 

Stiles brings a palm between her legs, and cups her pussy with one big, warm hand. 

Above him, Lydia quietly, lowly whimpers. She rolls her head, hair cascading down her side, falling softly across the sharp angle of his cheekbone. 

Stiles places an open mouthed kiss on her stomach, and at the same time, pushes his hand deeper between her thighs. He keeps his lips on her, wet and open, as his hand slowly grinds between her legs.

Stiles wants to start running his mouth. He wants to ask if he’s making her feel good, gripping her aching cunt like this. He knows he does, because her legs are beginning to quiver, and she’s letting out soft, mewling pants above him. The slower he goes, the more he can feel the heat of her scorch his palm; the crimson satin delicately turning a deep, juicy pomegranate as she drenches the fabric with her arousal. 

When he takes his middle finger and slides it against her slit, she lets out her first moan. He lifts his head, watching her arch her neck. She tries to bite it back, teeth sinking into the plush sinfulness of her lower lip, but it escapes regardless. 

It makes him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, hissing at the decadent sight of a lascivious and lustful Lydia Martin. 

“Feel it, Lydia.” He growls against the waistband of her skirt. “Feel yourself.” And then he holds his hand still. 

Obediently, she takes over his ministrations, generously grinding her sex against his outstretched palm. Teasing herself.

Stiles feels something explode inside his chest at the image. A possessiveness takes hold; a longing for her, and this, and the frightening desire to make up for lost time. The last time their bodies moved in this way was when they were teenagers who fucked like adults. Now they  _ are  _ adults. 

He wonders what’s to become of them.

Stiles moves his head, dipping it under the fabric of her bunched up skirt to kiss the front of her pussy. 

He’s heady with her perfume, the feel of the glossy panties against the roughness of his slightly chapped lips. He keeps his fingers pressing into her, trailing back and forth over the lips of her labia. She continues her grinding, moving along with him, following the caressing of his fingers. 

He gives her another kiss, and brings his hand up, pushing it flat against the front of her pussy, and then moving it back to cup her again. The heel of his palm rotates, slow and harsh, right over where he knows her clit to be.  

He can’t help but moan wantonly, jaw slack against her, before laving his tongue over the satin in a little kitten-lick. 

He feels overwhelmed by the intoxication of the moment. His kisses, all pouty lips and panting, hot breath.

_ Lick _ . Kiss.

_ Lick _ . Kiss.

Lydia continues to ride his hand, one hand dropping the skirt to grip his hair. She give him a harsh tug and he growls, swatting her pussy with a playful  _ thwat _ . It makes her whine, high and breathy.

“Oh you like that, don’t you, Lyds.” Stiles grins into her panties, and gives her a flat, broad lick. Lydia whines again in response. 

He rocks his hand back and forth; his mouth, lapping and laving at the now dripping fabric. He tastes himself, his saliva, and  _ her.  _ His favorite taste in the whole goddamn world. He used to wake up in the mornings with it on his tongue and his dick craving release.  

Stiles drops his hands, pushing her legs further apart until he spreads her thighs before him. 

“Mmm,” he rumbles into her, burying his face deep within the soft skin of her thighs. Stiles holds her still as he sticks his tongue all the way out, placing it over her underwear. And then he bobs his head, the only movement from both of their bodies as he tongue fucks her through the satin covering her soaked and clenching pussy.

She absolutely keens, body arching and tensing at the sensation. 

“Give me one last kiss, Stiles. Kiss it one more time.” She begs breathily; her first words since he started this, whatever this is. He complies obediently, licking and humming through his lips to the lips of her sex. 

Stiles brings his hand back up, moving to push aside her panties to finally, finally taste her. He hooks a finger under the side, sliding them over, when she steps away from his hand. 

He blinks a few times, sex stupid and dazed, before bringing his glassy gaze to her own flushed face. 

“Lydia?” He croaks.

“You’re not allowed to taste me. I don’t want you to eat me out.”

He realizes his hand is still outstretched, reaching for her. He drops it with a smack against his thigh.

“...You’re fucking kidding me.”

She smirks, shaking her head and saunters backward towards the bed. He’s suddenly reminded of junior year, when she told Kira what a vixen was. 

She looks like one now, red hair and flashing eyes. Completely in control, in her element. 

He’s going to fucking explode. 

Stiles watches her calculated steps backwards until she sits down on the edge of the bed, gathering her hair over one shoulder with a twirl of her fingers. 

“You’re not going to let me taste you, Lyds?” He growls, still kneeling on the floor. “You gonna torture me now? Make me work for it?”

Lydia sighs noncommittally, teasingly. Stiles’ eyes are glued to her form, and the delicious curves of her body. Her full chest, her tiny waist. The lecherous flare of her hips. She takes her hand and gently touches her neck, trailing her fingers down past her collarbone, her cleavage, her ribs, down to her legs, where once more, she hikes up her skirt. 

Stiles finds it impossible to give her space. His craving had been awakened, and now it roars inside of him. He crawls unhurriedly over to her on his hands and knees, and it feels primitive and intimate; an animal on the hunt. 

Lydia watches him with a dark fascination until his face is once more between her legs.

“Show me.”

With a lick of her lips, Lydia runs her hand over herself, keeping her eyes locked on his. He can see the restraint on her face. Her desperation to drag this out, to keep him on his knees. She probably sees that similar anguish she feels echoed in his eyes. 

Lydia drops her head, pushes her chest out, cants her hips. It’s hypnotizing. He’s mesmerized by the art of her body and the coquettishness of her actions. 

And then, she dips her fingers under the satin of her panties and fucks herself. He’s gripping the mattress on either side of her hips with white knuckles and stinging hands as he watches the dips and swirls of her hand under the deep red. 

She brings herself close, and backs off, rolling her head and groaning. Her cheeks pinken and her lips swell. 

Stiles brings his hand to cover hers, separated only by satin. He wants to feel her fuck herself. Wants to marvel in the moment of this. 

“I’m going to come,” Lydia whispers into the air, her eyes closed and her mouth parted.

“Do it,” Stiles encourages. He can physically feel his eyes hood sleepily as he takes her in. “Come all over yourself, Lydia.” And then he rises from his knees, bringing his face into hers for a kiss.

Lydia turns her head.

His lips land on her cheek.

They both freeze, his lips burning into her skin. Her hand stops moving between her legs. 

Stiles pulls back, so close to her face their noses brush. He peers at her, wanting her to meet his burning gaze with her own. Wanting answers. Wanting the sickening, simmering fury in his belly to be extinguished. 

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

They pant into each other’s mouths. His lips are so close to hers he can feel the heat radiating off of her. He could lean in and take it, if he wanted to.

“Goddamn it, Lydia. Kiss me.”

She finally looks up, and the vehemence behind her eyes consumes him through and through.

“No,” she growls through clenched teeth.

They study each other, and he gives a short jerk of his head to show her he understands. Instead, Stiles takes both of his hands and cradles her face. 

He lets himself stroke her cheeks worshipfully with the pads of his thumbs. He lets himself trace the slope of her nose, the arch of her brow. The pillowy softness of her bee stung lips. The tenderness of her fragile eyelids. Traces and studies and absorbs. His hands map her face until her eyes are shut and her breath is shivering in and out through her lips.  

And then he commandingly pushes her down with the flat of his hand. She lands on her back on the mattress, breath leaving her body as his palm runs from her chest down to her stomach. 

He brings it back up, curling around her neck. Brings it back down past her breastbone, over her chest, dipping past her navel to her clit. Brings it back up. Repeats. Stroking her fervently and adoringly. 

Lydia pushes her body into his palms, twists her hips to follow his fingers. He tucks his head into her neck and laves wet kisses over her skin. Nipping and licking, brushing his lips over and over her. Lydia pants at his attention. He knows her body yearns for him just as much as his screams for hers.  

Stiles pushes her shirt up over her bra, and brings his face to her skin as she pulls it the rest of the way off. He pushes his face into her chest, nipping at the sweet slope of her breast as it rises over her lacy bra. His hand moves to her other breast, squeezing it roughly, the way he knows she likes, and then snakes down past her ribs, between her legs. 

Lydia lets them fall open, and he finally,  _ finally _ touches her, skin to skin. They both moan wickedly at the contact. His fingers are lithe and strong as they go right to her clit, circling mercilessly. She’s so wet, and he just  _ dies _ over the sloppy, pretty sound of her want. 

He thinks about when they were seventeen, and they had to be hushed and hurried under their bedsheets, because his dad would come home from his shift any minute now. Or Natalie was just across the hall and she was a light sleeper. And Lydia would pant into his palm, and her eyes would lock into his, and he’d study the perspiration at her temples, and the fluttering of her eyes, and the sauntering of her hips as they milked his fingers for more. 

Those moments felt so holy to him. So sacred. It’s a feeling he’s yet to rediscover, but somehow, here and now, across an ocean on the other side of the world in a hotel room he’s been in for less than five hours, he’s found it. It’s back, and it’s with her. The girl who sucked him off in the boys locker room before gym class, when both of their hearts were in their throats, and the thrill of being caught egged them on. The girl who kissed him so gently when he woke up from a bad dream. Who had made him hot chocolate when he came to pick her up on a frosty morning before school. The girl who made his entire life spin and revolve and rotate around her gravity. 

“I love you, Lydia. I fucking love you so much.” He whispers into her hairline as he fucks her with his fingers. And he doesn’t care that she doesn’t answer back. He wants to give her this for what it is, exactly as it is, in this very moment. 

She’s slowly peeled her clothes off, and now she lies naked before him on her back. Her breasts peak and her stomach dips, and she stretches out at the feel of him. He’s still fully dressed, and it feels indescribably sexy for some reason. But he doesn’t want this imbalance. He wants his skin to touch hers like he wants a sunrise every morning.

Slowly, he stops torturing her, pulling his hand from between her legs. She watches him, out of breath and studious. He keeps his eyes on her, rising and then resting back on his haunches. Then he licks his hand; sticks his tongue out and slowly licks every single drop of her off his skin. 

It’s not as good as burying his face in her, but he can’t resist the temptation. 

He never said he plays fair. 

Lydia watches him with an look that leaves him wistful. It reminds him of the sensation of bleeding out. It’s so beautiful it hurts, so he takes the bottom of his grey henley and pulls it over his head, wanting to be bare too.

She’s seen him with less clothing than this before, from showers and bedtime rituals and just the past in general. But there’s something fearful and awestruck in her expression when she finally is able to rake her eyes greedily over his body. He lets her take her time. Just watching her watch him. 

This is his body now. It’s different, just like he is. But it’s still the body he was born with. He wonders if she can see that. The way her eyes find his happy trail, the old scar on his chest from the Kanima, the mole to the bottom right of his belly button, makes him think she can.

“Lydia,” he murmurs, and then she jumps up, hands going right to his pants, unbuckling his belt and tossing it to the floor, her fingers fumbling with the button of his pants. Nervous energy rolls off her. 

She wants him to  _ fuck _ her. She doesn’t want it soft and sweet. She’s scared of it. And some part of him is too. He doesn’t even know if he  _ can _ do soft and sweet anymore. So he sticks both hands in her hair and sucks at the soft spot under her ear as she frantically shoves her hand down his pants.

Lydia greedily grips his dick, giving it a solid stroke and pulling the fabric completely down to the floor. 

They’re on their knees, staring at each other, naked and panting. Their eyes, wild and hungry. He’s fucked a lot of people. He knows she has too. But he also knows she hasn’t fucked people like him, just as he knows with absolute certainty he’s never fucked someone like her, and maybe never will again.

He doesn’t know who’s been starving for longer.

“ _ Kiss me _ ,” he begs, roughly. Desperately.

“ _ No _ .”

He knows it’s fucking scary to do this. He also knows that it hurts so fully, so  _ brutally _ , because it fucking  _ means _ something. He’s suddenly furious with her, and with her refusal to admit that. He’s furious at himself, for ever letting her doubt it. 

Her ‘no’ steels something inside of him. Stiles takes himself away from her hands, and shifts so he’s behind her, pulling her back to his chest. 

He keeps his lips on her neck, but lets his hands work her. They cup her breasts forcibly, playing roughly with them. Squeezing and pinching her nipples. They smooth down her torso, cover her throat, finger her pussy. They consume her just as much as she consumes him. She’s breathless, pushing her ass against his throbbing erection, feeding off this feeling. 

And then, he pushes her down to her hands and knees. She goes willingly, compliantly. She arches her ass and curves her back and rests on her elbows. 

Stiles takes his cock and rubs it over her ass, lovingly. Ardently. He wets himself with her juices, thrusting up and down between her cheeks. All the while, his hands soothingly rubbing her back. He wants this, every inch of skin that’s available to him. Anything that she can give, he wants to take. 

He grips his dick and places it at her entrance, and waits for her to turn her head to communicate. She does. She looks over her shoulder, and her eyes leave him feeling so connected. So breathless. 

Stiles gently pushes the head of his erection in and out of her entrance, waiting for her to tell him to get a condom. But she doesn’t. She just wants him to fuck her. Now. As is. 

He hasn’t fucked without a condom in six years. Even in his darkest moments, even when his mind wasn’t quite all there, he was protected. There was a barrier between him and them. Emotionally, and literally physically as well. 

There would be no such barrier between him and Lydia.

Stiles pushes himself in, and they both absolutely lose their goddamn minds. It feels so. Fucking. Good.  _ She _ feels so fucking good. It’s the first woman he’s felt in six years since Lydia, and it’s Lydia both times. Stiles feels an indescribable wave of emotion crest over him, breaking. 

Lydia can’t give him many things right now, just like he can’t give her what she needs right now as well. But she can give him this. And this is everything. It says everything. 

He fucks her harshly, but slowly. He fucks everything into her, concentrating on the feeling of her gripping him, warm and delicious. Stiles concentrates on the way she fucks him back. Concentrates on her moaning, mixing and mingling with his. On the slap of their skin and the stickiness of their desire. His hands are everywhere, and hers are white knuckled, gripping the bedsheets so hard the corner of the mattress becomes uncovered. 

He can feel her clench around him, her orgasm nearing, and he knows he’s close as well. 

“Look at me, Lydia. Look at me,” he grunts into her sweaty shoulder blade.

“No,” she pants, breathless and desperate. She sounds close to tears.

He doesn’t care this time. He’s going to take this. 

Stiles pulls out and flips her over on her back before mercilessly thrusting himself into Lydia once more. He throws her legs over his arms and he grinds into her, eyes burning. Daring her to meet his.

She doesn’t. So Stiles takes this too. He grips her chin and turns her head, forcing him to look into his eyes. 

He sees everything in them. Desire. Fear. Confusion. Loneliness. And love. 

They come together, still staring.

 

* * *

 

They’re boneless, but he doesn’t want to miss this, so he slides down her body and sweetly parts her thighs. 

Wordlessly, Stiles watches as his come drips out of her. The white, stickiness of his ejaculation leaks over her entrance. 

It’s beautiful.

Gently,  _ reverently _ , he collects his come on his fingertip, and pushes it back inside of her. 

She lets him.

He goes deep; wanting her to keep him inside, for always. 

They lock eyes over her body, and a silent exchange passes between them. He slithers back up and wraps his arms around her, pressing his forehead into her cheek.

 

 

They don’t move for a very long time. But when they do, he’s the first to rise again. He sits up and looks down at her. Lydia tries to follow him, raising on her arms, but she’s too shaky to manage. Stiles helps her sit up, and the action feels both somber and kind all at once.

They sit there awkwardly before she thanks him for his assistance, and he tenderly kisses her cheek, suddenly finding it very difficult to meet her eyes. 

When they sleep that night though, for the first time, it’s purposefully together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to Jade (wellsjahasghost) and Rachel (madgrad2011), for being our eyes and backbone. And to you, the reader, who keeps our love for this fic burning bright. Hope you enjoyed. xx
> 
> -Maggie  
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com


	9. Aster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aster, or genus. 
> 
> Patience, love of variety, elegance. 
> 
> Afterthought (or the wish things happened differently.)

The warmth of the sun is what wakes Lydia up.

That's what she wants to tell herself as a very sleepy Stiles smacks his lips in her ear, dragging her closer to him. His knee is nudging into her, his hard cock pressed against her body, and the familiarity of all of it is almost enough to make Lydia forget that, last night, they hadn't been kids. They'd been adults who talked like adults, who fucked like adults— who hated each other like only adults really can.

Instincts tell Lydia to pull herself together, to get away from Stiles like she has every other night, avoiding the conversation that could easily come with waking up entwined like this. But she can't. She _can't_. Because she's always been good at pretending. She's always been good at pretending so that she could save herself, pretending so that she could protect herself, pretending so that she could protect other _people_.

So why can't she pretend, just for a moment, in a way that will make her happy? In a way that will make her feel like everything in her life went okay, and that this moment isn't totally jarring in the most anguishing capacity?

It'll hurt when she wakes up from all of it, but right now she can fake it for herself. The same logic that allowed her a special brand of cruelty in high school will enable her to pretend that Stiles Stilinski is her twenty-four-year-old fiance, who she has been dating since she was seventeen, and they have an apartment and a dog and a shared Netflix account. She can pretend that they are going to wake up and make breakfast together and smile too much at the normalcy of it all.

Behind her, Stiles stirs. He moves his head, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply, obviously waking up as well.

"Mmmm," he sighs against her, tightening his arms around her waist and pulling her closer to his body.

Lydia freezes against him, anger spiking through her veins without her meaning for it to. She can dream all she wants, she can pretend, but Stiles isn't allowed to pretend with her. He doesn't have the right. Lydia has never been a victim, but Stiles had tried to turn her into one, and as a result, he is the automatic villain of her story.

You don't sleep with the villain. You sleep with the sweet sidekick who loves you.

"Stiles," she says through clenched teeth, trying to sound angrier than she really is.

"Morning, Lyds," he mumbles, kissing her shoulder, and when he's yawning blissfully, that's when she sees it settle on his face— the reality of where they are. "Oh."

"Oh," she agrees flatly, something inside of her collapsing.

"Sorry," he apologizes, clearly not meaning it. "I, uh, didn't mean to."

"To what?" she asks, and his body tenses in anticipation when he hears her high-pitched voice that always prefaces a comment that stings. Lydia rolls over, leaning her head against her open palm, her eyes wide with false curiosity. "To fuck me?"

It's supposed to come across as a sneer, but he looks as though he's been thoroughly chastised, staring at her in the gold sunlight that weaves patterns on their skin.

"Yes," Stiles replies softly, his eyes unable to meet hers. Her heart stumbles. "That wasn't a part of the plan."

"What exactly was the plan?"

She isn't sure why her voice is shaking slightly, but she can't tear her gaze away from him. He'd been _inside_ of her last night; he is the reason she had woken up this morning wet and wanting.

Lydia has been wishing, for so long, that she could go back to a time where she didn't _feel_ with every part of her human self.

"To keep you safe," he tells her, reverence in the words, like he's savoring them. "That's always been the plan, right from the start. That was the fucking plan before you even knew there was a plan."

"Oh, really?" Lydia says, voice back to biting. "Is that why you—?"

"Stop." He sounds so tired. "Just stop."

Lydia isn't sure why she obeys, but her mouth snaps shut. She swallows down the bitter resentment at being patronized, at being coddled, at being shut-down in every way possible, and rolls over onto her side. With her back facing him, Stiles' breath blows gently against her hair, causing it to flutter against the soft white sheets. Hesitantly, his fingers find their way to the smooth, bare skin at her side, curving around her sleep warmed flesh. She is irresistibly reminded of just how much this man has always loved touching her; how piously he would let his hands find her body. She melts without even trying— he _melts_ her like he used to be able to when she was ice and he was a startling fire in a parking lot, fearsome and tall and worth fighting against.

And then, when she's least expecting it, he speaks, his voice reticent and resigned.

"Okay," he says. "I'll teach you how to shoot a gun, Lydia."

She breathes out into the brisk morning air. Relief floods through her veins, making her heart thrum a little steadier. She wants to say thank you; to say that she's glad he came around; to tell him that she is probably scared of the same things he is.

Lydia doesn't do any of those things. Instead, she turns around, eyes fixed on his lips. They're pressed together, rosy pink and so pretty. She can remember staring at them in class instead of listening to their teacher, thinking about the fact that she had slid her lips against them on the floor of a locker room and they had been soft and pliant, though not as sweet as his eyes.

When he notices her looking, his tongue darts out to nervously wet his bottom lip, and that's what gives Lydia the idea.

She moves forward slowly, mouth closed, and places a small, lingering kiss on his lips. A thank you. A gift.

A promise, she thinks to herself as she pulls back. An assurance that despite the fact that she cannot vocalize it, there is a part of her that knows where they would have been if he hadn't fucked up their lives. And she misses that place just as much as he does.

But now this is their reality, as empty and fake and exhausting as it is. Lydia pulls back, heart pounding in her throat as she takes in Stiles' eyes, wide and amber in her light. He blinks in awe for a moment, reaching out to cup her cheek, to lean forward and capture her lips again, but Lydia shakes her head, her brows drawing together on her forehead.

He listens. He doesn't kiss her. She's not disappointed.

But she does _want_.

Lydia turns around, rubbing her ass against Stiles hard dick a few times before she sighs and slips out of her panties, letting them drop to the floor on her side of the bed. Stiles sharply draws in a breath, hand gravitating towards her folds, already wet and ready for him.

"Jesus, you're wet," he says, sliding a finger into her from behind. It is thick and knobby but not enough. After all this time, Lydia just wants his cock.

"Stiles," she bites, but he doesn't listen, instead working another finger into Lydia, making her moan around him.

The exasperating thing is that she has been ready for round two since last night, but Stiles is teasing her. Two fingers have been enough to get her off on the occasion, as long as they were accompanied by an artfully used thumb, but this morning, all Lydia can think about is being filled by him again. She feels an indignant whine rising in her throat as his thick middle finger brushes against an incredible spot inside of her, just on the edge of enough. But he's moving slowly, so slow that Lydia can hear the sounds his fingers and her pussy are making together, loud and wet and, god, so hot, because she can't remember the last time she got this wet. She wants him to make her come until she doesn't think she can anymore, and then she wants him to force another one to roll through her so harshly that she has to bite him to keep from screaming.

She wants to be full of him.

"I want you to be on my fingers all day," he tells her, leaning forward and latching onto her ear with his teeth, pulling possessively. _It's yours_ , she wants to say, _It's yours if you want it. My body, my breasts, my heart,_ but she stops herself— holds back. Because it's not. None of it is his, most certainly not her heart. That belongs to her and only her.

If she lets him in again, he could leave just as easily.

But at least she can let him inside of her.

"Come on, Stiles," she pleads, letting her voice get low and raspy. "Harder, Stiles. Come on, _God_ , I want you so bad, _please_."

She feels the bed shaking as he kicks his way out of his pajama bottoms, lifting her leg when he anchors his hand against her hip, bracing herself for him.

"Like this?" he asks rhetorically, pushing in as deep as he can get from this angle. She bites back a moan at the slow push of him against her wet walls; the way he digs into her, making her feel like something is lifting inside of her chest.

"No," Lydia says, challenging him. "Deeper, Stiles."

He groans, long and low in her ear.

"You're killing me."

She just shakes her head.

"No."

 _You killed me_.

"You feel so much warmer than you did yesterday, Lydia. God, you're scorching me, it's so fucking good. I love fucking you."

She arches back, letting her arm drift back to stroke his hair gently, thumb running along the skin at his neck, soothing it over and over again. Stiles hums deep in his chest as he slides his hand down her bare leg in response, trailing it as far as he can reach, getting as much of Lydia as he possibly can. Meanwhile, he rolls his body against hers, pushing inside before almost pulling out, then sliding back into her with a long, satisfied grunt.

It happens again and again, building Lydia up until all she can concentrate on is the way they burn together.

Stiles litters kisses across her neck and shoulders, brushing against her skin with an open mouth between kisses. She feels strengthened and protected and so turned on, thinking about how he's going to be coming inside of her for the second time in less than twelve hours.

A wave of arousal washes over her, making her eyes roll upwards in her head as he drives into her over and over again.

"My clit," she says, trembling with the need for him to make her come— a side effect, Lydia would assume, from being turned on from the moment she woke up. "God, Stiles, touch my clit."

He lets out a long, shaky breath in her ear as he slides his hand between her thighs and softly brushes his thumb against the nub. It's sensitive enough for Lydia to grit her teeth, and when he sees that, he presses harder and rubs faster circles around her.

"I'm gonna come soon," he tells her. "You want that? You want me buried inside of you?"

Stiles Stilinski, coming inside her. Stiles Stilinski, wedged deep into her body and into the makeup of who she is. She wants him buried inside of her every single day for the rest of her life, in the way she hasn't wanted anything since… since…

Since she was eighteen.

"Yes,"she says. "Yesyesyes, please, Stiles, _please_."

"I need you to come first, babe. C'mon. Wanna feel you clenching around me, squeezing so tight, keeping my cum inside of you—"

" _Fuck_ ," she moans as she comes. Lydia crests upwards, allowing the feeling to rush through her brain, and then she breathes herself down, blinking her head back to clarity.

Stiles is still pumping into her, hands shaking as he covers her breast with one of them, stroking her nipple, and perhaps it's his effort to keep himself inside of her that makes Lydia even more desperate to feel him get off too.

"Mon dieu, je souhaite que je t'aime pas," she tells him, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.

"What does that mean?" he asks, panting.

"It means I want you to come, Stiles," Lydia lies. "Je souhaite que je t'aimais pas.

Je veux pas t'aimer."

He growls low in her ear as he finally spills himself inside of her. Lydia presses her hands against her stomach, tight, as if she could feel him. They stay like that for a moment before he pulls out and they lie side by side, spent.

"I can't believe you pulled the French card," Stiles says eventually. "That's just rude, is what that is."

When she looks over at him, he's smiling at her, his eyes content.

And, well. She can't have that.

"We aren't going to be doing that again," Lydia informs him professionally.

He doesn't seem happy about that, and neither is she.

"Didn't we already sorta open a can of worms?"

"Not yet, and we aren't going to."

She can't look at him. Searches the floor for her robe instead, wanting to take back all of the dirty words and the moans that she'd given to him, but somehow knowing that it was worth it— if only because he'd heard it all before.

"You just kissed me," Stiles points out.

"That doesn't count," Lydia says smoothly. "It was… nothing."

"Friends don't kiss like that."

"We aren't friends."

"Enemies don't kiss like that."

"Smart people don't backslide and sleep with their psychopath exes." She turns around proudly, wanting to see the disturbed expression on his face, but instead, she is startled to see Stiles lying in the bed with his arms wrapped around his bunched up pillow, a small smile curving over his mouth. He's got his head turned towards her and is blinking at her contently, as though he has all the time in the world to lie between white sheets with sunlight splashed across his mole-covered back. He looks happy. He looks, for just a moment, _safe_. "Stiles."

He blinks to attention.

"Sorry, uh, what did you say?"

And sometimes she forgets that he is still completely ADHD, despite the fact that he seems downright calm on occasion.

"I said that you need to shave." He scrubs a hand across his jaw. "You're getting scruffy again."

He smirks at her, a childish playfulness tugging at his lips.

"You don't think my scruff is kinda sexy?"

"No," Lydia says shortly. "Get up."

She goes to the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and then opens the door when Stiles bangs on it.

"You said you wanted me to shave," he says pointedly. Lydia rolls her eyes before sliding over at the bathroom sink so that Stiles can reach for his toothbrush. "Thanks."

He brushes his teeth while she twists her hair into a bun and does her morning face routine, not bothering to tighten the thin robe that sways around her body. She's almost certain that he can see her nipples, but considering the fact that he'd had his mouth on them last night, Lydia can't bring herself to be very bothered about that fact.

Stiles splashes water on his face before spreading shaving cream over his cheeks. As he reaches for the bottle with a cream covered hand, he accidentally nudges against Lydia's arm.

"Sorry," he mumbles, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the spot on her robe, trying to sweep up the cream before it annoys her.

Her breath catches, even though she doesn't know why, and Lydia is still staring at him when he lifts his razor to his cheek and begins to run it down to his neck.

"Wait," says Lydia sharply. Stiles stops, a little startled. She lowers her voice, ignoring how her legs feel shaky. "Let me."

For a moment, he looks between the razor and her outstretched hand. He calculates the sharpness of the blade, the acute edges of her nails, the stinging anger that she feels at him. And then he nods, hopping up onto the bathroom counter and placing the blade delicately into her open palm.

Lydia steps between Stiles' spread open legs, carefully surveying his face, eyes skimming over the cream that has been smoothed over his sharp cheekbones. She moves inward, razor in her right hand, the fingers on her left pulling the skin on his cheek taut. Slowly, Lydia presses the razor against his skin and pulls it down, watching a strip of flesh get revealed under the cream. She shaves another strip, then leans forward to run the razor through the warm water that Stiles had collected in the sink.

Stiles doesn't move when she leans forward. His eyes stay fixed on her, serenely watching her. When she pulls back to touch his cheek again, his eyes remain unabashedly on her face, not watching her hands, but instead simply reveling in her closeness.

Lydia tugs the razor down his cheek again. And again. And again.

"You're good at this," he says huskily.

(She isn't sure when his hand had drifted from her waist to her ass. She isn't sure why she doesn't tell him to stop touching her. She isn't sure why she steps closer, pretending to need to lean in all the way to reach a far away spot, and lets him nuzzle into her neck a little.)

"I've had practice," she says nonchalantly, voice a little too breathy.

She can't believe that he'd fucked her only a few minutes ago and she's already ready for him again. It feels like the dam has broken and now that Lydia remembers what it's like to want sex the way she had when she was a teenager, she can't stop herself from needing it.

Instead of telling Stiles that, she rubs her thighs together and runs the razor carefully down his cheek.

"I called Scott when I was on the train to London."

It's odd how something inside of her lifts just a little bit as she hears the name of her best friend.

"How is he?"

"He thinks you're mad at him."

"Perceptive, that one."

"I think you're not."

Lydia frowns.

"Of course I am. I'm with you, aren't I?"

"But you know Scott was just trying to keep you safe."

"Once again… with _you_?"

"He knows what I would do for you." Stiles shrugs. Like it's _nothing_ , saying that. "He knows how I feel."

"Is that supposed to make me _less_ angry?" she asks, pausing to glare at him. Stiles laughs.

"Maybe not."

"Hmmm."

They're silent for a few moments, just the sound of the blade sliding down Stiles' skin, and occasionally Lydia dipping it in the water, shaking the droplets out.

"He's been okay though. Right?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'okay,'" responds Lydia blithely.

"What do you mean?"

"It's Scott."

"I mean… he was sad, but he's fine now. He's fine."

"Are _you_ fine?"

"No."

"So why would you think Scott would be?"

"Because he's _Scott_."

"He misses you every day," Lydia says, holding him still around the jaw so that she can shave his chin.

"I miss him too," says Stiles, like it's simple.

"He doesn't do very much."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean… he spends too much time with me. We order takeout and marathon TV-shows. We go on vacations together. I spend holidays at his house, unless I'm dating someone."

"That sounds fun."

The longing in his voice doesn't escape her notice, but it makes her chest ache, and she can't bring herself to comment on it. Not when she's been longing for something too.

"It is. But it's not enough."

"He's lonely," Stiles says, like the thought has just struck him.

"You left him."

"You had… you had each other, and… and _things_ to do. You two have always been better at the whole 'people' thing than I have, I thought you'd be fine, I thought… I didn't think—"

"He doesn't want to get left again." Her voice is shaking with the kind of quiet, determined anger that comes with loving someone as much as she loves Scott. "You detached a limb from the most open-hearted person we know. You took away a piece of him. He doesn't want to get left again." She draws in a shaky breath. "And neither do I, Stiles."

"Lydia—" he starts, voice strained.

"Did you not think that you were hurting him as much as you were hurting yourself?"

His answer is to simply shake his head. She wants to scream at him, to punch him in the chest again, to slap him in the face, to sob into his shirt, to throw up into the shower because all of her feelings are piling to the surface and she doesn't know what to do anymore. He's right in front of her and she wants him closer and she wants him gone.

Instead of doing any of those things, Lydia takes a wet towel and tenderly wipes down Stiles' cheeks, removing the rest of the shaving cream from them. She sets the towel down, picks up the dry one, and methodically dabs over the rest of the spots. Stiles isn't watching her this time. His eyes are staring at the stark-white bathroom wall.

"I wasn't trying to hurt him."

"He was collateral damage to you punishing yourself," Lydia says, and Stiles sucks in a harsh breath at her directness.

"But I didn't want this, I swear to god, Lydia, I didn't."

"I know that."

"I trusted him with my _life_."

"How so?"

He stares at her pointedly.

"I trusted him with everything," he says again.

She rubs her thumb over the blade, replaying the word 'everything' in her head, over and over again, a merry-go-round that never stops spinning.

"You put this razor in my hand."

"Yeah. Well. The world has never been that kind to me. I guess you can either prove me right or prove me right."

The way he says it twice makes her double-take, tracing the phrasing over again in her head and trying to understand what he means.

"Right about what?"

He smiles, a little forlornly. Kisses her on the forehead.

"I gotta go clear my head," he murmurs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "You gonna be here when I get back?"

She nods, a little stunned by the tenderness.

"Yes," she promises.

"Good," he says, and when he hops off of the counter and steps outside into the front room, he turns around to give her one last smile. "Remember: I'm trusting you with my world too, Lydia."

* * *

"Yes, it's beautiful here this time of year," Lydia says to the camera, watching her mother's delighted face on the glowing screen of her laptop.

"I just can't _believe_ Carter surprised you with an impromptu trip to Europe. You know, you've always wanted to go to Scotland!"

She resists the strong urge to roll her eyes.

"That's true," Lydia says instead, stifling a yawn as she reclines against the pillows on the bed— the same bed, by the way, that Stiles had fucked her on last night. And this morning.

God. If she doesn't stop thinking about this, she's going to get turned on while she's on Skype with her mother, and that's something Lydia never wants to do, thank you very much.

"Do you think he's going to propose while you're abroad?"

The eager words knock the wind out of Lydia, causing her to blink in surprise at her mother. She doesn't know what to say. She had been so unexcited about Carter's proposal, she hadn't even bothered to let her mother know about it. But isn't that what she had wanted? She had _wanted_ to be with someone who didn't make her heart pound; who didn't patch her soul with pieces of his; who didn't give too much or take what she couldn't offer. She had wanted to be with someone who she was unexcited about, so that it wouldn't hurt anymore.

But here she is, in London with Stiles Stilinski, so angry at him that it is tearing her into bits and pieces. The only way she thinks she can be sewn together again is with the slide of his body against hers. And, yet, that's exactly what cut her in the first place.

"He didn't know I wanted to go to Scotland," Lydia says, the words almost on autopilot. She doesn't remember deciding to say them. Suddenly, it is just important that her mother know. "That's not why we went."

Her mom looks like she doesn't know what to say to that, which Lydia understands.

"Why, then?"

Her brain works quickly, trying to come up with an answer that makes sense, but that's when she hears a key in the lock to the hotel room door. Before Lydia can hang up, it swings open, revealing Stiles in his usual dark jeans and darker henley, holding multiple large bags, several of which swing precariously across his arms. He swears loudly as he crosses the threshold, one of the bags falling out of his hands as he tries to slide the key out of the door, and then grabs it and huffs in annoyance when he kicks the door shut. For a moment, he stands there staring at the door, an annoyed glare on his face. Then he turns around to pick up the bag, and the annoyance slides out of his expression as he sees Lydia.

"Hi," he says, sounding young and soft and a little bit adorably nervous. Her heart skips a beat. She feels like they're at the moment at the end of the date where she's not sure if they're going to kiss or not, despite how much she wants to.

"Hi."

Her response is just as soft, and perhaps that's what makes her mother's voice ring out clearly and sharply from the laptop.

"Lydia." Stiles' face jumps into a grimace at the sound of her mother's voice. He picks up the bag that had dropped and brings all of his packages over to the dresser, setting them down. "That's not Carter's voice."

She tries to laugh it off.

"Of course it is."

"That's also not how you look at Carter."

Lydia can't see Stiles' face, but she can see his back freeze as his hands stop busying themselves on the dresser.

"Mom," she says, voice hard. "Don't be ridiculous."

"But that's how you looked at—"

"I have to go," Lydia says promptly. "I love you, bye." She ends the call before her mother has the chance to reply to her, her heart pounding too fast in her chest.

They had sex last night. And this morning. Sex is something she can do. This? This isn't.

"You told her you were with Carter."

His voice is empty.

"What exactly did you want me to say?" Lydia snaps, immediately going to the defensive. "'Mom, I'm in a foreign country with the ex-boyfriend who left me when I was eighteen-years-old. Yes, the one I thought was dead. Yes, the one I cr—"

She'd been so heated, she hadn't been thinking, and when it occurs to her that she is about to divulge something that she doesn't want Stiles to have, Lydia stops speaking mid-sentence.

"Cried over," he finishes for her, quietly. "You cried over me."

She doesn't want to answer. Instead, she reaches behind her head and begins to comb her fingers through her hair before starting on a double dutch waterfall braid, fingers moving quickly through the motions of weaving the strands together.

"We all did," she says, snatching a bobby pin from the bedside table. He doesn't say anything, and it gives her strength. "Once again you fail to comprehend how important you were to everyone around you."

"I didn't—"

"No, go ahead," Lydia says facetiously, switching to the other side to make another braid of the same kind. "It's incredibly fascinating to find out how someone so narcissistic could simultaneously consider himself so be so unimportant."

He swallows back a lump of something, something that she hopes hurts almost as much as her refusal to kiss him last night. But she'd given that to him. She'd been ridiculous to give that to him.

She wants _Scott._ He'd make her see clearly again, the way she hasn't been able to since that party at sunset with Stiles' fingers wrapped around her wrist. He'd kiss her forehead and ruffle her hair until she pouted and tell her that he would rewatch _The West Wing_ with her just as long as he got to decide where they got takeout. Scott is safety, the way Stiles used to be. Scott is home.

But then again. Maybe she doesn't want to think about how home hasn't felt like home in six years. Maybe she doesn't want to consider the idea that the home she and Scott have made is one without a door, so that the freezing cold wind sweeps through their house with no barrier.

Stiles has always been the thing that swings between them, the thing that they followed blindly like a moth to flame.

A part of her has always known that no home is true shelter without him. But Lydia doesn't want to think about that. So, instead, she thinks about the bags.

"What do you have there?" asks Lydia, directing her gaze to the packages on the dresser.

Stiles clears his throat.

"Uh. Chips in curry sauce."

"What?"

"Like, french fries, and there's curry sauce over it and it's supposed to be really good? I thought we could snack while we planned."

Her hands fumble a bit as she pins the second braid.

"Planned what?"

The confident glint in Stiles' eyes when he turns around is enough to make Lydia drop the hair elastic that she is wrapping the rest of her hair inside of, the careful bun tumbling down her back.

"How we're gonna get 'em."

She finishes off her updo, pretending that the poster-board that Stiles is taping up on the wall isn't daunting. It can't be daunting. She had wanted this— she _said_ she wanted to do this. She hadn't wanted to keep running, she had wanted to be on the offensive this time, finishing this once and for all.

Never mind the fact that, when they end it, the life that she returns to cannot include Stiles.

Everything ends. Lydia isn't pretending that her time with Stiles won't, too. The loss of their relationship, their friendship, their comfort, hadn't seemed inevitable until she was already on the other side of it, realizing how naive she'd been to put so much of her faith into someone else's feelings for her.

She's not making the same mistake again, even though Stiles is the mistake that she would make forever. It doesn't matter that he's said that he loved her multiple times in the last twenty-four hours, or that he had trusted her to stand between his legs and carve into his cheek.

As soon as they take down the collector, Stiles is gone from her life again.

"Let's do this," Lydia says resolutely, getting off the bed and going to stand next to Stiles in front of the poster board. She's sure she looks silly, with her intricate updo and the ballerina pink pajama top that she's wearing with soft gray panties, but somehow the braid reminds her of every time she and Stiles had stood in this exact position in high school, their arms brushing against each other, both of them too shy and too in love with each other to comment on it. She leaves it in, letting small wisps float around her cheeks as she stares at the blank white piece of cardboard, somehow more daunting than she remembers it to be. "You've been doing this for six years?"

"Yeah." There's no humor in his voice. "My ideas are never as good as yours, though."

"Compliments will get you nowhere," she says flatly. "You're still not eating me out."

"Damn," says Stiles drily. "How did you figure out that going down on you is the only reason I decided to take you to the sock hop?"

Lydia steps closer to the board, tracing her fingers across the white expanse of space.

"Do we want to be in an open area or a closed area?"

"Open," says Stiles. "Somewhere far away from this hotel room. I don't want them connecting us to this part of London."

"How do you know they don't already know we're here?"

"We've been keeping out of areas that'll have any types of security cameras or tourist ones. I'm gonna assume that they found us because of the people in the bar taking pictures of themselves and their friends and we were in the background. But I don't think either of us have been photographed since we got to this part of the country."

"So if we left the room, we wouldn't be attacked?"

"Well, sure, theoretically, but like… the same problems would arise, yeah? So there's no way you'd be safe."

"Then that's it," Lydia says confidently, reassured by his words. "We go somewhere public. We use our real names. They find us."

"How public?" Stiles asks, uncapping his green marker, the blaze in his eyes licking at Lydia's skin as he looks at her. "Somewhere fancy, right? So that they can't make a scene— they have to notice us first, and then plan, but we'll be waiting for them so we'll find them first and already have a plan."

"We leave when they get there," suggests Lydia. Stiles begins writing, scribbling furiously at the poster board in his sloppy handwriting that only the two of them and Scott would be able to read. "Like we did at the bar."

"We pay off some waiters to get in their way, and then we're already waiting for them in the back."

He continues to write their words onto the white poster, his hand moving quickly in order to get all of their ideas down.

"Handcuffs?"

"Yeah, I got some."

"Of course you do," she says, rolling her eyes. "But." Lydia pauses for a long moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Stiles, we only need one man."

The answer is simple, but she wants him to be the one to say it. She doesn't want this blood on her hands. She wants him to splatter it for her— in her name, in her honor, in the love for her that he gives away with ease.

"I'll shoot him," says Stiles, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "If the other guy tries to escape while he's getting away, you can use your scream to get him out of the way."

"And where do we take the captive?"

"There's this warehouse I know about. I can talk to someone."

The sentences nags at Lydia, although she can't figure out why.

"Someone specific?"

"Uh, yeah," he says, tapping the marker against his bottom lip as he reads over what they've written.

"I thought you worked alone."

He laughs through his nose.

"Even crazy hitmen need allies sometimes."

"Allies."

He turns to her, noting the odd catch at her voice.

"What."

"The girls you've been sleeping with? Were they allies?"

She isn't looking at him. She winds the soft, flowy fabric of her shirt around her fingers and wonders what it would be like to not have love for him pressing against her chest until she can't breathe every minute of every day. She hasn't breathed easy since she was sixteen.

"Sometimes," says Stiles. "Empty ones. Placeholders."

"Did you ever use sex to get what you needed?"

"Yeah."

He meets her eyes plaintively, not hiding from her.

"You used them?"

"All the time."

"Did you ever think about me when you were with them?"

Stiles puts down the marker, eyes still tearing into hers.

"I tried not to. I tried not to think about you, to keep you separate from them. But, fuck, Lydia. I've been getting off thinking about you since I was in middle school. I'm twenty-four fucking years old and I've always been a man who appreciates a good _habit_." She wants to cry, thinking about him coming inside of another woman while he pretends that his fingers are sliding across her skin. "So do with that what you want to."

She's silent for a moment, feeling something build up inside her chest, something anguished and wrenching and _alive_ — more than fire, more than hurt, it is a life of its own within her, the one thing that she has never been able to control because Stiles is the one who had planted it inside of her with his smile and his humor and his cock.

"I didn't think about you," she tells him, almost boastfully. "I never thought about you when I was fucking him."

"Oh, you didn't?" Stiles says. She shakes her head. He takes a step closer, so purposefully that it makes Lydia's mouth dry. "You never thought about me?" Lydia shakes her head again. "So you didn't think about us? About the way it sounded when we were both moaning at the same time. How good my fingers felt inside of your body. How good it was when we were fucking quietly because your mom was asleep down the hall and you would _whimper_ at me, not wanting to let me look away from you for even one second."

"No," she says, voice too high. "I never thought about that."

"You didn't think about any of it?" He takes another step closer. "How I made you laugh when we were falling asleep at night and made you coffee in the morning and made you come so good, all the time? You never thought about doing this, right here? Standing at the board and being _smart_ together, and how I could barely keep my hands off of you because we were solving mysteries together but this time you were my _girlfriend_ , my brilliant, genius of a girlfriend, who I was allowed to touch whenever I wanted, and I _did_. We'd figure it out together and it made you almost as hot as it made me, I know it did, Lydia, because you were so wet when I would finally slide into you." He glances over at the posterboard, smirk toying at his lips. "We got so turned on when we were doing shit just like this, Lyds."

She takes in a quick, heavy breath before she rams herself at him, her open mouth colliding with his lips. His hands find her ass immediately, lifting her up and backing her to the wall, pressing her hard against it. Their lips push and pull against each other, teeth clacking as they kiss too hard, too much. Lydia devours him, devours every single part of him, the first taste of his tongue touching hers in six years. It's enthralling, feeling his tongue sliding at the seams of her. Almost unwillingly, Lydia is being thrown back in time to when they were eighteen-years-old, the last time she had felt his tongue furling against hers. They breathe heavily through their noses, unwilling to part their lips, and Lydia digs her nails too hard into his shoulders, so full of love that it makes her infuriated. She wants to know why they're doing this and why they _haven't_ been doing this, but more than that, she wants to keep tasting him for as long as she can.

"Oh god," she murmurs, before latching onto his bottom lip with her teeth and pulling it towards her. "Oh god, Stiles."

"What?" he pants, hand squeezing her ass where he is cupping it. He dips forward to kiss her top lip, then her bottom lip, before opening his mouth more fully and covering her lips with his own. They move with each other again, somehow both pliant and practiced despite the fact that nothing about their relationship is either of those things. "What, Lydia?" he asks again, voice commanding despite the doe-like look in his eyes.

She's overwhelmed, brain buzzing as her gaze scatters all around his face, across his flushed cheeks, across his lips, the way the cupid's bow is nearly scarlet, the rest of his mouth a more faded version of red against the pale of his skin.

"I don't know," she admits, trying to ignore the way her eyes are welling with tears. When he notices, he licks his bottom lip in surprise, his eyes filling as well. Lydia can hear her own breath, too loud and too much in her ear as she runs the pad of her thumb across his spit-slick bottom lip. She dips her thumb into her mouth, sucking on the taste of them for a moment. "Prove it to me."

He tucks his head into her neck, breathing into the skin that shines lightly with sweat.

"Prove what?"

"Prove that you never stopped thinking about me," she demands, impatient despite the fact that she hadn't been clear. He hesitates for just a moment, considering, before his hands move from her ass to her waist, holding on. She feels drunk with the knowledge that he knows exactly what she means, and he's making it happen simply because she asked him for it. "Show me. Make me _feel_ it. Make me ache for you."

She doesn't mean her chest, or her stomach. She wants to feel him sliding up into her, loving her so tremendously that she cannot remember what it was like to not be filled by him. She wants it to hurt like they have for the last six years.

He flattens his tongue against her neck, running it leisurely from the juncture between her shoulder and her neck until he reaches her pulse point. Lydia throbs in anticipation, unable to help herself as she knocks her head back against the wall, her hair falling from her perfectly executed updo.

When Stiles straightens up to look at her, there's something soft and sweet in his eyes. Carefully, Stiles helps Lydia undo the rest of her hair, allowing the red strands to fall forward over her shoulders. His fingers gently follow the path of her hair from her ear, over her breasts, to her stomach. Lydia stares openly, her heart pounding, her mouth dry.

Stiles' hands squeeze her hips. He rubs against her teasingly, his eyes starkly serious, and suddenly Lydia can't stand it anymore. She reaches down and unbuckles his belt and jeans, not needing him naked, just needing his cock. Stiles breathes out quietly as she shoves her panties to the side and then looks up at him expectantly, her whole palm stroking against his cheek. When his tip finds her entrance, she moves her hands down to his shoulders, smashing her lips into his once again. He pushes into her, and Lydia moves her lips down his tantalizingly, not ready to separate from him yet.

"Lydia," whispers Stiles, slipping his thumb under her shirt and rubbing circles over her skin. "You feel so good."

She squeezes around him, moaning, and then presses down on his shoulders, pushing herself up on him. His thumb stills as his hands grip tighter, helping her slide up and down, small whimpers leaving her throat as she lowers herself onto him over and over again. Lydia can't stop looking at him; at the way his eyes are closed with pleasure and his mouth is hanging wide, ready to be kissed again.

"Nothing feels like you," she gasps out when his hips jerk a little, almost causing her to slide down the wall. He shoves her harder against it with his body, simultaneously pushing himself deeper into her. "I've tried so hard but _nothing_ feels like you."

"Fuck," he says, gritting his teeth as one of his hands leaves her hips and goes to press against the wall. "Take your shirt off. Wanna see your tits bouncing as you fuck me."

"Yours too," she says, breath coming out in huffs. "Take it off."

She's hiding a smile as she stops moving for a moment, pulling her shirt over her head to reveal her breasts snuggled into a white bralette. His eyes latch onto them as Lydia begins to move again, working her hips so that her clit catches on his stomach, causing her to stifle a moan. She arches towards him, chasing it more, and Stiles bends down to mouth at her breasts through her bralette, laving at her nipple with his warm, wet tongue.

Lydia suddenly cannot fathom the strength it is taking for him to hold her up like this, with her ankles hooked together around his waist and his body gravitating towards hers as best he can when the only thing keeping her in place against the wall is his hips. Her moans increase in pitch as she thinks about it, about what he's doing to her, about how long she wanted this and how wet she would get if she ever _did_ think about it while he was gone.

She never thought she would have it again.

Lydia's body almost involuntarily clenches, and Stiles hums out a fragile groan as he gets closer.

"Can't believe how wet you get for me," he tells her.

"Just like old times," she says breathlessly. "God, Stiles, are we really doing this?"

"Fucking?"

"No, the plan. Are we—" He takes the hand that is flat against the wall and shoves his palm against her clit over her panties "oh, god, yes, _there_ — Are we really going after those men?"

"Yeah," he says. She digs her heels harder into him. "I promised I would p-protect you. I promised I would keep you safe. I'm doing this for you, whether you want me to or not. Understand?"

She nods, the long breath that she releases blowing some hair out of her face

"I'll be with you the whole time," Lydia says, panting. "I promise."

The look on Stiles' face grows mischievous.

"Oh yeah, Lydia? You gonna come with me?"

She is. She _will_.

The scary, stupid thing is that she would follow him to the end of the universe, just to ensure that they'd never be alone again.

Lydia's never alone when he loves her. And despite how much she has hurt, and stung, and missed him, she has never been alone once for the past six years.

Stiles Stilinski loves her exactly the way she loves him. The way she's always loved him.

The way she always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you got two sex scenes in one chapter. Blame Maggie, I guess? When I tried to cut the morning sex she acted like a goddamn Fury so there ya go, two sex scenes and way too much characterization. 
> 
> ALSO thank you so so so much for all the reviews you left on Maggie's chapter! I was reading through all of them and squealing; they're wonderful. Thank you. 
> 
> Rachel, Jade... you write prettier things in the google docs on these chapters than I write in the actual pages. At all times, you can bet that I am dreaming of sitting in a cafe with you two and Maggie, talking about Lydia Martin's intimacy issues. I love you, ladies. You are so wonderful.
> 
> See y'all in two weeks, but for now, I can promise you that Marigold is gonna fuck you up next week, so enjoy that :)
> 
> *hugs*


	10. Marigold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marigold, or Tagetes Patula.
> 
> "Herb of the Sun,"
> 
> Cruelty.

Lydia taps her polished fingernails rhythmically on the glassy tabletop of the restaurant. She’s been on edge all morning, ever since Stiles called his connection and made a reservation for brunch the night before. 

She looks beautiful seated across from him in all white, the sun in her hair and her full lips pursing the way they always do when she’s agitated. 

Stiles doesn’t blame her for being nervous. He clearly remembers feeling that way in high school, when the mere thought of Jennifer Blake made his heart pound, powerful enough to feel like it would burst through his chest. 

He remembers feeling that way when Peter offered him the bite.

Or, in an impossible feat that he still can’t explain, when he needed to make an insubstantial amount of Mountain Ash circle an entire building.

Now?

Not so much. A villain is a villain. A gun is a gun. A fight is a fight. 

He wears that numb lifelessness like a second skin.

But when he glances over at Lydia, currently glaring at the menu without reading anything, that sentiment doesn’t feel completely true.

He catches her eye, and she picks up a ornate silver spoon, turning from him to carefully examine her lipstick. 

When she glances away from her reflection and back to him, something in his expression must bother her because she drops the spoon with a clatter and rolls her eyes.

“What, Stiles.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

“Who said I was nervous?”

He can feel his mouth twisting into a knowing smile, and tries to stop it. A smug smirk would be just the thing to piss her the hell off. But it’s fruitless. He smiles anyway, despite the lackluster effort on his part. “You always pretend to touch up your makeup when you’re uncomfortable. Or when you want to tease me. It’s your tell.” 

Lydia chooses to ignore that, flipping her hair over her shoulder in response and examining anything and everything around her, so long as it doesn’t include him. 

Around them, the bistro buzzes. Waiters zip around their table, shoulders heavy with laden trays of fragrant breakfast food that makes his mouth water. He’s  _ starving _ . 

Maybe he’ll have eggs benedict. Or like, those little fresh croissants with slivered almonds on top and warm chocolate in the middle--

Silverware clatters to the floor and Lydia swears loudly, jumping about a foot in the air. Her hand darts out, seeking his. Stiles meets hers halfway across the table, grabbing it with a squeeze. 

“...It’s just silverware, Lydia.” He assures her. 

Lydia nods, blinking rapidly and breathing out of her nose. 

He knows now that she’s not just anxious about this plan; she’s scared.

Yet here she is. Sitting beside him, putting herself in danger over and over again. And she’s doing it for herself, for him. For others. 

How could he ever forget that? Of course she could shoot a gun. Of course she could defend herself. Of course she could be afraid, but be brave enough to follow through anyway. 

She can be all those things and more, because she’s always been infinitely more than the sum of her parts. Bigger than anyone’s ever given her credit for, including himself. 

She’s changed colossally. They both have.

But she needs to remain calm if they have any hope of taking The Collector’s henchmen by surprise. Their entire plan revolves on the element.

Stiles watches as Lydia’s breathing slows and, with an almost shy look, she draws her hand away and smooths her cream colored skirt. 

He had begged her to wear pants and sneakers this morning, but the place they’d chosen for the rendezvous was selectively fancy, and Lydia would rather be caught dead than in a pair of Sketchers. 

She very well might. 

Stiles had watched helplessly as she meticulously curled her hair, adding a squirt of perfume on her wrists and rubbing them together. He knows that this routine calms her; gives her a sense of control. Stiles let her have it. 

Now, sitting in this high-end bistro, he feels a stillness in his bones. It happens every time, right as he’s about to face action. It’s his autopilot mode. 

He’s not calm. He’ll never be calm. It’s more of a desensitization.

He needs her to feel that same numbness if they have any hope in flawlessly executing this plan. And as Lydia’s fingers once more begin to beat against the tabletop, he thinks about the cold concrete floor of the boy’s locker room, and the contrast of Lydia’s warm, soft lips. 

“I never did find out about zeta functions.” 

That gets her attention.

Lydia looks up from the lacquered surface of the table to the glossiness of his eyes. Stiles watches warmly as a small smile stretches across her face.

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Then why did you get an A on your final?”

“There were only two questions about them on the worksheet!”

She laughs, and it feels so good to watch her crack out of her shell and loosen up, if only for a little bit. 

“Okay, so like, take a look at the Artin-Mazur zeta function. Not to be confused with the Local zeta function--” she dives in with gusto. Stiles knows that Lydia knows it’s a distraction. He also knows that she’s grateful for it.

As she continues her explanation, he wordlessly pushes his napkin across the table, along with a ballpoint pen. She grins and grabs it, pointing and scribbling bleeding equations into the paper. 

He zones out to study her. He could have offered her more information about his life during those six years without her, and that would have placated her nerves. But this...this was infinitely more fascinating than the adventures of a very sad, very lonely boy. 

Lydia’s just getting around to the theory of modular forms when the waiter finally,  _ finally _ approaches to take their orders. 

He smiles at them and whips out a pad of paper.  The sharp movement of his elbow inadvertently gets Stiles’ attention, and when their eyes meet, the worker gives a subtle nod. Behind the waiter’s elbow, there is a shifting in the corner of the room. 

Something inside of Stiles snaps into place.

Lydia continues to ask questions about the menu, and Stiles arranges his face into something akin to pleasant boredom. 

He keeps his eyes on the waiter, a skinny, balding fellow, while simultaneously studying the movement from his peripheral. 

Four men. Three of them at least over 6’2, two over 230 pounds. Big boys.

They are trying, and failing, to blend in. Stiles watches them as they try not to watch him. 

His heart begins to flutter with excitement. 

“...and I’ll have a coffee.” He hears Lydia finish.

“Oh darling,” he says smiling, really playing up the saccharine sweetness of the pet name. (Look, if he’s going to put on airs with Lydia, he’s going to fucking milk it for all it’s worth). “You’ll be wanting almond milk with that, won’t you?”

Lydia blanches, but recovers beautifully. 

“Yes,” she says, smiling tightly at the waiter. “Yes, please. Almond milk with that.”

He knows now that she takes almond milk with her coffee. But he also knows that the night before, they established the words ‘almond milk’ would be their signifier. 

_ They’re here _ .  _ Get ready _ .

The waiter smiles and sashays away to place an order for food they would never be taking a bite of. 

Stiles leans forward on his elbows across the table, and gives her a soft peck on her lips...trails his lips to the corner of her mouth...brushes them across her cheek...before whispering in her ear, “Left back corner. Don’t look.” 

When he pulls back, he keeps his eyes intent on hers, wanting to ground them. Lydia’s eyes are wide, and there’s something  _ alive _ about them, like a switch has been flipped. It’s the same look she gets before an exam, or when they’ve finally pieced a seemingly insurmountable puzzle together. And then, she surprises him by leaning forward as well, pressing her lips to his.

He can physically feel himself melt into her touch. He reaches up to thread his fingers through her hair as her hand presses against his jaw--

A gunshot rings out from the restaurant like a crack of thunder, Stiles and Lydia tear apart, and then there is nothing but chaos.

“ **FUCK!** ” Stiles shouts, leaping across the table and pulling Lydia into his arms. 

Around them, the place dissolves into pure panic. Patrons dive under tables or sprint to the exit. Some look around in untimely anticipation, lethally slow to react. Glasses shatter.

They hadn’t anticipated this. 

Stiles drags Lydia down to the floor, taking brief shelter behind the table.

“They’re going after us! We didn’t plan for them to attack in the middle--!” Lydia babbles, panic clawing it’s way up her throat.

“It’s okay!” Stiles interrupts, pulling his firearm from the attachment at his ankle and undoing the safety latch. “This is a good thing!”

Lydia scoffs indignantly, eyes wild. “How the  _ hell _ is this a good thing?! Stiles!!!”

“Because, Lyds,” he turns his attention to her, a shit-eating grin on his face. “It means they’re getting desperate.” 

And with a flourish, Stiles cocks his gun and shoots her a cheeky wink. “Let’s get ‘em, Killer.”

Bursting from behind the table, he stands and brandishes his gun, firing randomly at the group of men, before reaching down and pulling her towards the exit at a sprint. 

“Get out of here!” He shouts at the random brunch-goers, shell shocked and panicked. “Fucking,  _ go _ !”

The crowd swarms the exits, some of the smarter patrons make to escape through the kitchen. And then it’s just them, The Collector’s men, and lots and lots of gunfire. 

Stiles feels almost giddy. His body burns as he sprints and leaps from table to table, loading his firearm and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Lydia watches him with fearful but curious eyes, and he would feel self-conscious if his adrenaline wasn’t through the fucking  _ roof _ .

“Shit shit shit shit shitshitshit.” He mutters as an unfortunate and familiar ‘click,’ rings through the air, his firearm out of bullets.

“Stiles!” Lydia keens at the realization, but he squeezes the back of her neck in comfort.

With a flourish, he pulls up his shirt, exposing his stomach and the CZ 75 handgun in his waistband.

“Come on babe,” he grins. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” 

Stiles pops up once more, firing. His bullets find a target, and one of the four men drop to the floor. 

_ Bingo _ .

His victory is short lived as a siren wails in the distance. 

“Christ,” he says, dropping back down to take shelter next to Lydia. “We gotta finish this up, and fast.” 

Lydia nods, a steely glint in her eye, and wordlessly, they both sprint to the nearest overturned table. She dives gracefully behind the furniture (seriously, how the hell is she so good at everything?), and he scrambles stupidly behind her.

When he fires again, another body hits the floor, and he lets out a cheer. Lydia’s mouth tightens beside him. One more to go. 

It’s that thought,  _ one more to go _ , that makes him stupid. He hasn’t been this reckless in a while, but when he stands up, he immediately realizes his error. 

Sure there’s one more to kill, but there’s still two men firing. Two against one. 

The dual gunshots ring through the restaurant. One hits the wine glass next to his forearm. The other heads straight for his chest, dead center.

He flinches, right as a desperate scream  _ rips _ through the air. His eyes snap open, taking in the sight of Lydia, clouds of white wisps hovering around her hands. They both watch in horror and fascination as the bullet that was meant to kill Stiles hangs suspended, three inches from his chest. 

He blinks, feeling slightly dazed and delirious, before gingerly reaching out and slowly closing his fingertips around the capsule. 

When his hand covers it, Lydia pushes her scream at the men, her face contorted in glorious fury. 

The third man drops dead, but not before blood sprays from his torso like fireworks on the fourth of July. 

It makes Stiles spring into action, and he leaps over the table, flies over another, and drop kicks the fourth man to the floor. 

The man scrambles for his gun, but Stiles kicks it away, and stomping down on his wrist, breaks it with a musical  _ snap _ . 

The man howls, and Lydia runs up, Stiles’ handcuffs in tow. Stiles flips him onto his stomach, wrestling on top of him and pushing his head into the glass on the floor as Lydia snaps the metal over his wrists, one already swelling and bruising magnificently. 

And then, Stiles brings the butt of his gun high into the air and brings it down on the back of his skull with a blow. The man stops struggling. 

“...And then there were none.” He turns to Lydia, grinning. The siren continues to wail. Around them, dead bodies lay silent. 

Lydia doesn’t smile back.  
  


* * *

_  
Crack. _

The violent sound splits the air of the warehouse, and the man’s head whips to the opposite shoulder; blood spraying through the air like flower petals in spring. 

Stiles’ connection had come through, leaving the place abandoned and unlocked. It’s cold and empty, save for a mountain of plywood in the corner, and the beaten man currently glaring at them as blood pours from the shards of glass impaled above his eye. 

It’s a perfect place for answers. And it’s a perfect place for a murder.

He hears Lydia suck a breath in behind him, but it sounds dreamy and so far away. 

The sting of his knuckles draws his attention back, as does the sputtering of the man currently heaving, head still turned. 

“Who else is there. Who else is in it.” He feels himself say, but it doesn’t sound like him.

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look over at Stiles either. 

Stiles doesn’t expect him to. Torture comes with the territory of this man’s career; bloody, risky, and lucrative. The Collector’s employees are elite assassins, and the man’s been trained well; prepared for this. Unfortunately for him, so has Stiles. 

“Get the bat.” 

“Stiles,” Lydia breathes behind him.

“Bring me my bat.” He repeats, and holds an open palm out for it, back still turned to her. 

He feels her slip the cold metal into his palm, and he lets it slither down his skin until his hand wraps around the grip. He circles his wrist, making it arch beautifully in the air. It’s a silver ballerina. It pirouettes once. Twice. And then he brings it swinging down across the man’s kneecaps. 

The sound it makes causes Lydia to cry out, and his stomach rolls in sick gratification. The man screams and Stiles juts his arm out, gripping his jaw. He yanks it brutally, bringing it close to his own face.

“Do I have your attention now?”

He waits. There is nothing but sobering coldness, and the sound of breath. 

Stiles, breathing in aggressive, angry bursts through his nose. 

The man, shuddering and panting. 

And Lydia, hardly daring to breathe at all. 

“We could go all night, you know. I’m very capable, I’ve already limbered up in preparation.” 

He smirks at his own joke, and it reminds him of when his parents used to tell him not to play with his food. 

“Fuck. You.” The man growls. And then, with a hacking heave, he sucks in and spits out a clot of blood. It hits Stiles squarely in the chest, a perfect bullseye. They all freeze, waiting to see what Stiles will do. 

Stiles breaks his nose. 

The crunch is so satisfying against his palm, and his hand is warmed immediately by the dark spurt of blood pouring from the man’s nose. 

“You like that? Hmmm?” Stiles shouts, grabbing the man’s jacket and shaking him roughly. The man’s head bobbles on his shoulders, eyes rolling back into his head until there’s only white.

“Oh no,” Stiles says, smacking his palm against the man’s cheek. “Oh no, you don’t get to pass out. You get to tell me information. That’s what you’re going to do. Aren’t you so lucky.” 

It works. The man’s head falls back, then forward, then up to Stiles once more. The entire bottom half of his face is a violent crimson, cascading down his ringed neck, pooling into his shirt. 

Briefly, Stiles contemplates the idea that he’s crossed a line. But isn’t that just always the way? He crosses lines, it’s what he  _ does _ . He steps over, boundary over boundary, until he’s so far in he can’t see where he started. He gets lost in those meaningless lines. 

Did crossing these lines start when he was a child? When he drank whiskey, way too young, to see why his father liked it so much? Or maybe it was when he fell so deeply in love with a girl so fully above him, that it’s left everything clouded in its wake. 

Stiles paces in front of the man, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt, like fingerpainting. Staining; poppy flowers on a green field. 

“Had enough?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, deliberately slow and careful. It looks painful. 

“When they told me to find you, they called you by your given nickname. You did a good job of wiping yourself clean,  _ młody człowiek _ . The person you used to be.”

The Polish nickname for ‘young man’ causes his stomach to give a particularly nasty dip. It’s a hint. _ I know you. I’ve been looking for you. _

Stiles chooses to roll his eyes, continuing to pace. He can’t betray the dreadful feeling currently pooling in the pit of abdomen. 

Besides. He’s heard this before. 

There are many names given to him. The Shadow, because he’s dark and mysterious, and he disappears. Cliche, but it got the point across. There’s also Open Eyes, because he kills with his eyes open, unblinking. He doesn’t like to think too much about that one. 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles chuckles. “Thanks. Tell me, what do I go by these days?”

The man grunts, cracking his neck and rotating his bound wrists. “Depends on what circle you ask. The werewolves aren’t very creative. You’ve probably heard the shadow one. The Druids call you Neamhní.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but the man doesn’t expand. “Gesundheit. Guess I’ll ask Lydia about that one.”

“There’s one more that you go by, my personal favorite. The humans gave you this one. Leave it up to humans to consider humanity.” 

“Oh just shut the fuck up and say it already,” Stiles laughs, swinging his bat around playfully. 

“The Dead Son.”

It makes him stop in his tracks.

Stiles turns his head to him, glaring, stomach bottoming out. 

“Explain.”

The man grins triumphantly. There’s three teeth missing, half of one is a jagged dagger of enamel. It’s a gruesome and grisly sight. 

“Got your attention with that one, huh boy.”

“Fucking. Explain.”

The man shrugs noncommittally, flipping his palms to the ceiling. “You didn’t just drop from the sky, or crawl out from hell, which is more likely if you ask me. You gotta be somebody’s kid. Someone’s son. Poor parents. To have a kid like that. Walking around dead behind the eyes. Parents would rather he be dead than wander around, bleeding out everywhere. Bleeding others out to match.” 

_ Somebody’s kid. Someone’s son.  _ Like he’s a walking ghost.

God, his fucking dad. His fucking father. 

He drops his bat, and he hears Lydia call out to him, but he blacks out and swings. He swings his fists until he can’t see his father’s face, or the sound of Scott’s laugh, or the green of Lydia’s beautiful, perfect eyes. 

He feels bone crunch and hears her screaming and god he’s so fucking angry. So fucking scared. So fucking sad. All of it. Everything. He feels it all and pushes it into his fists until he’s seething with exertion and on the verge of hysteria. 

And then he drops his hands and steps back to view his pulpy masterpiece. 

The man doesn’t look like a man anymore. He also doesn’t sound like he’s breathing, his head droops on his chest.

Stiles shoulders are still heaving when the man, at last, speaks. “If they can’t have her, they’ll have everyone.” He murmurs thickly. His head still rests on his chest. His eyes are closed. 

“What does that mean?” Lydia quips from behind him, startling Stiles a bit. He had almost forgotten he had an audience.

“It means, sweetheart, that you are the big kahuna. But should it be impossible to fry you, they’ll make a meal of everyone else instead. Every pack, every person. Everyone.”

The three of them sit in silence, letting the confession wash over them like warm summer rain. Sad and soft and deafening. 

There’s a heaviness in Stiles’ bones that feels like it will never stop aching.

“You broke me,” the man hisses, addressing Stiles in an almost satisfactory fashion. “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” 

“You’re the one that works for the fucking Collector! You’re directly helping this mass genocide happen!” Stiles retorts angrily. But the man just laughs darkly at his indignation.

“And after all this,” he gestures to himself, bloody and broken. “After you beat me, after you shoot me dead, you’ll go to bed and think this was what you  _ had _ to do to survive. Thinking you’re one of the good guys. But you and I? There’s no difference. Not one fucking bit of it.”

Something rolls in his stomach, acidic and biting. There isn’t any truth to the words. There can’t be. He’s just trying to get into his head. 

Stiles whips around to Lydia for assurance. 

She fucking  _ jumps _ . 

She physically jolts back, recoiling from his sudden movement. She tries to play it off, shuffling her body awkwardly. But she can’t meet his eyes. His mouth goes slack.

“ _ Lydia _ ,” he staggers, stunned by the realization. 

Behind him, the man laughs and laughs and laughs. 

Stiles sees red, and then not much of anything else after that.   
  


 

He knows he’s been standing in front of the unconscious man for a while now, and it’s the first time since he’s reunited with Lydia that he wishes he were alone. 

The Collector is after everyone. Everything. And it is their fault. 

Their responsibility. 

“Lydia,” Stiles whispers into the cold air, his breath a visible cloud in front of his face. “What does Neamhní mean?” 

“...It means nothing. E-empty….Void.”

Stiles raises his gun, points it at the man, and pulls the trigger.   
  


* * *

  
When he was younger, his mother used to say that if he stayed too long in the shower, his fingers would prune. And then his arms, and finally his whole body, until he shriveled up and fell down the drain. She meant it to be funny, thinking he’d pick up on the joke. He had wailed.

Stiles looks down at his fingers, pruned and white. 

Maybe he really did shrink. He certainly feels like he did. Like something inside of him is irreparably altered.  

Every time he thinks he can laugh, make a joke, feel like it’s possible to  _ breathe _ again, there is that reminder. The pruning. Lydia flinching. 

He is different.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door, and Lydia slips in before he gives her permission. He can only make out the blur of her silhouette through the steam. He watches her through the glass that divides them as she leans on the counter of the bathroom sink.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he replies.

It’s quiet as she thinks of something else to say. Stiles waits.

She clears her throat. “Noah eats salads now.”

….Not what he was expecting.

“W-what?”

“Noah eats salads. Kale, if you can believe it.”

He can’t, but not because of the kale. 

Lydia shifts, placing her hands behind her back and crossing her bare legs. “Every Wednesday. Kale salad, grilled chicken, and quinoa. He does the grilling, obviously. But I massage the kale. You know. Make it edible. Less likely to shred the lining of our intestines. It helps me get out pent up aggression.” 

He takes his hand and drags it over his mouth, eyes welling. Lydia continues.

“I can’t speak for Thursday through Tuesday. But Wednesdays, he eats well. I make sure of that.” She chuckles. “Though, we kind of defeat the purpose later in the evening. We pop in a movie and drink whiskey. Don’t worry. I make sure he only has one glass. But we’re tipsy by the time we get to the scene where Anakin tells Padme he slaughters the village. It’s the only way it’s possible to watch that scene, honestly.” 

Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat, and lets his tears mingle with the water of the shower. “That movie is the worst one. I fucking hate it.”

“We know. We watch other movies too. Die Hard, his favorite. He humors me and we’ll watch the occasional chick flick.” She laughs through her nose, lost in a memory. Pauses. “But...we always seem to come back to that one. Can’t seem to leave it alone, I guess.” 

Lydia lets him stay quiet. She must know he needs this moment to take it all in. His father is doing okay. Eating salad. Drinking in moderation. Spending time with Lydia. Fucking  _ quinoa _ . 

He can’t help the laugh of disbelief that bursts out of him at that. And then, following immediately behind, come the tears. 

The sound of his breath, stuttering and bouncing off the porcelain of the bathroom, echoes around them. 

It’s not the first time he’s cried in front of Lydia. But it’s the first time he hopes it won’t be the last. 

“You visited my dad,” he gasps, and he know he sounds absolutely  _ wrecked _ over it. He  _ feels _ wrecked. “He wasn’t alone…”

He hears Lydia shift behind the foggy glass. “Of course he wasn’t. It’s not easy to leave people behind.”

Stiles knows that she means in any circumstance, in any part of life. Leaving behind childhood, or moving out of a home. Moving forward in a new direction...or saying goodbye to someone you love.

But, as always, he finds it impossible to think beyond them. Him and her. Stiles and Lydia. 

“No,” he breathes into the empty space in front of him. “No, it’s not.” 

It’s quiet again, save for the beating of the shower, raining down on the tile floor. Lydia’s always been good about giving him what he needs, when he needs it. He watches her move again on the counter, and it looks uncertain. But she makes up her mind, crossing the floor to stand in front of the glass parting them. 

“Besides,” she says, placing a hand against the glass— the only part of her he can see distinctly. “I always thought Noah and I had some sort of connection.” He laughs through his nose, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, and cracks the door of the shower, finally able to clearly see her. Lydia’s playful smirk anchors him. “....Unspoken, of course.” She finishes teasingly.

They smile at each other.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles sniffs. “Think my dad is pretty cute, huh?”

“Adorable.” 

“I got my height from him.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Not the nose though.”

“Shame,” Lydia says, leaning forward. “That’s my favorite part.” And with that, she kisses him. Her lips are warm and plush against the wetness of his mouth. Stiles closes his eyes.

He wonders how it’s possible for a single kiss to keep him wanting her. What kind of magic her lips have to make something simmering and alive inside of him roar to life. Why she’s always made him feel like he’s flying; adrenaline pounding and body tingling and soul alight. Why he feels  _ awake _ around her. And why it’s always been her to do that. Just her. 

“Lydia,” he breathes into her mouth, eyes still closed. “Lydia, come here.” 

“Okay,” she whispers into his lips and pulls back, stripping herself of the white dress, stained red from blood that did not belong to her.

He watches her ribcage stretch at the movement; her skin exposed to the balmy atmosphere of the bathroom. 

The shower is hot, but they both have goosebumps. 

She stands in front of him, naked and painted. 

“You have blood on you,” he says.

“You too. You missed a few spots.”

“Come and help me?”

Lydia nods, and Stiles moves back as she steps into the shower beside him. He looks down at her, the spray of the water hitting his back as he shields her from it. 

The last time they were in the shower together had been at his place. His father had a late shift, and they were playing house. It was something they did a lot. Pretending. 

It was so easy to pretend with her. They were married and cooking dinner. Watching movies. Taking showers and reading in bed. (She read out loud, he dozed on her chest). Things were simple when it was just them, in the small, quiet moments they had. They were simple. They could be easy. 

But nothing, absolutely _ nothing _ , about Lydia is easy. Stiles has known this since the day he laid eyes on her, when life actually  _ was _ simple and uncomplicated and his parents loved each other and they loved him and nothing could ever hurt, but her. 

She looks up at him with blood on her neck and her eyes wide. Nothing about her is easy, because she is so beautiful that it claws at him. It chews him up and spits him out, and he says  _ thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. _

He thinks she knows this, that she understands, because there are tears in her eyes that match his. 

“Lydia,” he murmurs raggedly. “Lydia, thank you.” And, taking her hand, Stiles pulls her forward towards his body, wrapping her in his arms.

This is what he wants. This is what he’s always wanted.

He feels her head sag against his chest, and she pushes a kiss there, right over his heart. Hands moving to encircle his waist, she squeezes him closer as he ornaments kisses over her hair and forehead. 

Tenderly, he spins them around, so she’s in the stream of hot water. And carefully, he lifts her head from his skin, running his fingers through her locks and wetting her hair for her. 

Lydia watches him quietly as he massages her scalp, pushing her hair back so water won’t run into her eyes. 

There’s a trembling in his hands as he takes care of her. He knows she’s not delicate or breakable, the way they all used to fear she was when they were sixteen. But in this moment, she feels fragile. And he wants so desperately to be gentle. 

She’s been through so much. She deserves that gentleness.

He works shampoo into a lather, and cleans her hair. Conditioner next. Then, he takes a loofah and soap, and worshipfully washes the man’s blood from her body. 

The water runs from her skin in beautiful rivers of red. Stiles smoothes his hands over her, kneading in the soap, touching every inch; the soft spot in the center of her throat, behind her ears, the underside of her breast. 

Lydia’s eyes are closed as he makes work of her body, occasionally letting out a sigh as he massages her shoulders or brushes his soapy fingers over her pubic hair. 

He washes her until she’s clean, and once more, he finds himself almost able to pretend that the horrors of earlier hadn’t happened to her. That they are eighteen, and the world is soft and quiet, and it never hurts. 

But when Lydia opens her eyes again, it’s impossible.

“I love you so much, Lydia. So much.” 

A distant look clouds and breaks over her face.

“You said that to me, six years ago. And then you turned and left me standing in the rain.” She says, and softly takes the loofah from his hands. “Turn around, Stiles.”

He does, and she trails the soapy sponge over his back, cleaning whatever blood he had missed, as water rushes over him. 

The blood spirals down, whirling around the drain. Life circles, and circles, and circles. 

 

 

She takes him in her mouth, when there is no light outside, and their hair is still damp from the shower. 

The night is pigmented in an inky indigo. The room, illuminated only by the distant, yellowed city lights of London. 

There’s a tingle that races up his spine when Lydia’s tongue runs along the underside of his throbbing cock; the swift and powerful bob of her head, sucking him and taking him deep into the wet and wanting cavern of her mouth. 

Stiles breathes out her name. Grunts it out. Murmurs it like a prayer. Growls it. 

His hands brush her hair from her face, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail, guiding her. Encouraging her. 

“Fuck my mouth, Stiles.” She tells him huskily. “I want to feel your cock hit the back of my throat.” 

He does. He holds her head still and fucks into her mouth, snapping his hips and rambling obscenely. 

_ That feels so good. You’re so fucking good. Your mouth feels fucking perfect, sweetheart. Take it all, Lydia. Fucking perfect.  _

His dick is wet and dripping as Lydia’s hand slides through the slick, jerking him off. She moves her head to take his balls in her mouth, sucking gently and squeezing the base of his straining erection. 

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” he tells her. “You’re  _ so _ beautiful.”

“Please, Stiles,” she pants against the flushed skin of his thighs. “Please, I want to taste you on my tongue.  _ Please _ .”

It’s the  _ please _ that gets him. She never begs him for anything, unless it’s like this. The two of them, alone and naked in more ways than one. 

Stiles reaches down and cups her jaw, feeling the thrust of his cock through her cheek. When she pauses, opening wide to smile at him around his dick, he tips over the edge.

With a grunt, he spills into her mouth. Lydia sticks her tongue out, continuing to pump him, and he watches as his semen pours onto it, some dribbling over and falling on her flushed and swollen lips. It’s the prettiest goddamn thing he’s ever seen. 

She swallows it all, and licks her lips when she’s done, and for fucks sake, he’s so  _ wrecked  _ by her.

Reaching down, he guides her up his torso, and kisses her. He wants to pour everything into it. Sweetness, remorse. Gratitude. The knowledge that she is his galaxy, in which he resides and revolves. Always has been. Always will be. 

He buries his fears about tomorrow in her touch. Smothers his guilt in her kiss. Clears his mind in the crook of her neck.

He’ll have to deal with what is to come, when it comes. But for now, he has this moment with Lydia. And for Stiles, Lydia has always been the beginning and the ending of everything.

They’re quiet as they lay in each other’s arms.

“Are you anxious about tomorrow?” She whispers into his neck.

“A little,” he confesses. “They’re powerful. But if we can convince them to join us, we might actually stand a chance against The Collector.”

Lydia kisses her way up his jaw, and he closes his eyes at the feeling of her eyelashes whispering against his skin.

“Me too,” she says against his chin before moving to his mouth. “But I’m hopeful. Innately, they’re good people.” Her tongue slides across the slit of his lips, and he opens his mouth, sticking his own tongue out to touch the tip of hers. She sighs languidly at the feeling as they glide slowly across each other.

“Besides,” she says, pulling back to look him in the eyes. His hands find a place in her hair. “I’ve always wanted to visit France. I’ve always wanted to know more about Allison’s summers with her family.”

Stiles gives her a tight, close lipped smile. “Ready or not,” he grumbles. “Here the Argents come.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys how's it going how's life did you hear about STYDIA BEING CANON LYDIA AND STILES MADE OUT AND ARE DATING AND THEY'RE ROAD TRIPPING ACROSS THE COUNTRY AND THE WORLD IS KIND AND GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURTS!!!!!
> 
> A huge thank you to Jade and Rachel, and for you, the reader, for giving your encouragement and patience as we waited for our collective heartbeats to slow down before posting. 
> 
> Rainflower, after this chapter, is kind of clearly split into a 'before' and 'after' post-Argent meeting. As such, we're taking a quick break this week from posting. 
> 
> Rachel, as I'm sure you know, has been slaving away over Stydia Month and the Stydia Big Bang, which will be occurring this week! You'll have plenty of content to occupy your time. Art, edits, fics, reviews, aesthetics, playlists, and so on and so forth! It's a Stydia Palooza!!!
> 
> However, Rachel and I do have a special treat that will be posted on Wednesday, should you have a particular Rainflower itch that needs to be scratched. xx
> 
> After this week, we will return to your regularly scheduled program of posting a Rainflower chapter every Wednesday. Please be sure to give Rachel lots of love for organizing the love fest of our CANONIC OTP. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. All my best,   
> Maggie xx
> 
> restringbanshee.tumblr.com


	11. Anthurium (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthurium, or anthurium andraeanum. 
> 
> Hospitality, abundance, happiness. 
> 
> Anticipation.

Lydia hadn't thrown away the dress.

It is crumpled into a plastic bag at the bottom of her suitcase, shoved underneath all of her other clothes. She doesn't exactly know why she'd kept it— it's not like she's ever going to be able to wear it again. It's _white_. Or, rather, it had been. It had been a bright, brilliant white before it suddenly became speckled and splattered with the same blood that was on Stiles' hands.

His cruelty hadn't been limited to himself. It's on her now. It's getting all over her, and despite the shower they'd taken before waking up and getting on the train, she still feels covered in it. Like it's dripping down her skin, circling into puddles on the floor of the train station.

Almost subconsciously, she speeds up, walking a little bit faster as if distancing herself from London will make her forget what happened there.

"Found him," Stiles says, squeezing Lydia's hand. Her head shoots up, and she lets her eyes skid all the way around the train station before they finally land on Chris Argent. He's leaning against a pillar, as usual dressed almost entirely in black, and he's got the stern, muted look on his face that forces Lydia to remember that this is business, not pleasure.

But then he catches sight of them, and for just a moment, the grim look is gone, morphing into a smile that crinkles its way up to his eyes— and that's one thing that Lydia has always loved about Chris. They smile the same way; nothing that their lips do really matters, it's the eyes that tell everything.

Right now, his are telling her that he's glad to see her.

Lydia rushes up to him, making the decision to hug him at the last minute. For just a second, she is thrown back into the familiar comfort of being sixteen-years-old and hanging out at her best friend's house.

"Hi," Stiles says lowly, and then it's gone. The fleeting memory, the moment, the sensory stimulus that had allowed her to live in a world where Allison Argent lived and breathed— it's gone with the sound of Stiles' voice.

Lydia lets go of Chris.

"We should get going," Argent is saying, his eyes already leaving the two of them to dart around the station, owl-like in their judgement of the surrounding area. "There's a car waiting out front, we can catch up there."

He takes Lydia's suitcase from her and the three of them march out into the bright sunlight, getting away from the train station as quickly as they can. Chris, the last one into the car, checks the sidewalks carefully before ducking in after them, his eyes like steel again.

It's easy for Lydia to see the admiration on Stiles' face; to see the way he soaks up Argent's actions, trying to learn from him. She presses her lips together to keep from saying what she wants to— that Chris Argent is the loneliest man she has ever met. Being this way had cost him _everything_.

And, god. Haven't they lost enough? Time. People. _Sanity_. So, no, she doesn't want Stiles learning from Chris. She wants to tuck his head into her neck and keep him there, pressed against her, safe, _breathing_.

"How far out of the city is your place?" Stiles is asking, watching out the window as they speed through the small streets.

"An hour by car," answers Chris evenly. "And it's gated, and well-hidden. They won't be able to find her here even if they're trailing us, Stiles."

Lydia watches the way his body physically relaxes and thinks about all the times she had watched him sag until he was small; deflate in relief because something felt like it was finally _over_. No matter what he does now, she doesn't think he'll ever be small again. Nor does she think he will ever escape the heaviness that comes with that.

"If I wanted to keep her here, she'd be safe?"

"You're not keeping me _anywhere_ ," snaps Lydia. "I'm going where you go. I want to end this too."

"I'm not having this argument again." She's startled to hear how bored his voice is. "You heard what they said. You're who they're looking for— the big one. You're not going anywhere." Lydia opens her mouth to argue again, but when she turns to look at Stiles, his gaze on her is steady and unperturbed.

She closes her mouth. Crosses her arms. Turns towards the window and pouts at the passing city as she tries to come to terms with how unbalanced everything feels.

The soft murmurs of Stiles and Argent discussing the kickback of different types of guns is the only music they have during the ride into Chantilly.

* * *

There had once been a picture on the mantlepiece at home, back when her father still lived with them. In it, the four of them, plus their dog, had posed for the camera, beaming. Her father's arms had been around her mother, whose arms were around her sister. And Lydia, dressed in a pristine white dress, had been staring up at all of them, several teeth missing from her smile.

When she was in elementary school, she had loved to stare at that picture and imagine what it would be like to be a part of that family. For just that moment, that tiny snapshot, they had been perfect. Lydia's father loved her mother. Lydia's sister was _there_. Lydia's mother noticed things. And everything was wonderful merely because of how simple it was.

Simple. _Normal_.

The secret of Lydia Martin is that she has always lusted after the concept of normalcy.

Allison, on the other hand? Allison had never wanted that. While Lydia had been wearing impeccable outfits and impractically high heels, chasing down the image of a girl she would never be, Allison had been writing her own story. She had never wanted that one thing that Lydia was obsessed with. Allison hadn't been feverish for anything at all. She had stepped up to the world with a cool, collected composure, meeting its gaze as it approached her.

Staring around the dining room in the Argent mansion, Lydia thinks she might finally understand why nothing seemed to shake Allison. This is the place she comes from— a place so large, Lydia and Stiles had gotten lost _twice_ on their way to dinner. A place with its own shooting range, tennis courts, and even a stable with fourteen horses, all named after different types of guns. And Lydia's family is certainly wealthy, but she's never seen anything like this.

There are forty-two chairs in the Argent dining room, and each has the family crest carved into the back. Lydia takes her seat on one of the plush blue cushions and tries not to feel overwhelmed at the sheer amount of people who are taking their seats at the table, filing in slowly and filling up the chairs.

"Holy shit," mutters Stiles under his breath, eyes wide as he looks around the room. Chris is deep in conversation with a man who is only slightly older than him, but still looks incredibly fit. When he reaches over to greet one of his family members, Lydia can see a gun strapped to his hip.

"Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," she whispers to him, her back still rigidly straight despite the fact that nobody is paying the two of them any mind. For the next several minutes, Lydia sits silently next to Stiles and observes the people sitting around the table, taking in the hardened expressions on their faces and their callused, chapped hands.

She's paying close enough attention to be able to immediately notice when the mood of the room shifts.

An elderly woman strolls inside, her strong, stern expression not shifting as she nods to the members of the Argent family, then takes a seat at the head of the table. Immediately, everybody finds their seats, following her lead. She's in her sixties, Lydia would guess, but her body is strong and her eyes are sharp as she observes the people at the table.

"Who are you," she asks, speaking directly to Stiles. He glances over at Lydia as if he needs her to answer the question for him, but before she can respond, Chris speaks across the table.

"Helena, this is Stiles Stilinski and Lydia Martin."

The scrutinizing eye contact of this woman is so strong, Lydia almost doesn't notice several people bringing heaping plates of food into the room. They set mustard-crusted pork in front of the two of them, and Stiles, who hates pork, opens his mouth to complain, but Lydia shoots him a stern glare and he snaps his mouth shut immediately.

When she looks back towards Helena, she sees amusement on the woman's face.

"And you've brought them here why, exactly, Christopher?" she asks, taking a sip of wine, seeming to find humor in her own question.

"We're the ones tracking The Collector," Stiles bursts out. Everyone at the table is silent, watching the three of them. "We… we, uh, we came here to ask for your help in making a plan. And to keep Lydia safe." More silence. "'Cause, you know, they're going after her." Stiles begins to fidget. "I mean, you know, really, can you blame them? Who wouldn't want to chop off her head and stick it to a wall." Lydia fights back the strong urge to roll her eyes. "It's… it's a great head." She discreetly steps on his foot before he can say something to the effect of 'just like the head I got last night.'

"Mr. Stilinski," Helena says eventually, her light British accent adding to the stately elegance of her voice. "Were you taught that it was polite to speak of beheadings at the dinner table?"

Stiles swallows. Hard.

"Um, well, no. But… my dad was a sheriff, so, like, we often spoke of gruesome murders at the dinner table. You know. 'Hey, pass the salt, by the way did you hear about the guy who got his own big toe jammed down his windpipe?'" Everyone at the table is still staring at him. Lydia glances over at Chris to see him taking a long sip of wine. "I'm just kidding. That never happened. Although I'm not sure what it says about me that I was able to come up with that concept on the sp—"

"Young man, you are _late_."

"Sorry," replies an insincere voice from the doorway. "Won't happen again."

"That's what you say every evening, and yet here we are."

The fondness in Helena's voice is unmistakable. Lydia turns her head, expecting to see someone who bears a strong resemblance to the woman at the head of the table; a son, perhaps. Instead, she finds herself face to face with a sleepy looking Isaac Lahey.

"Hey," says Isaac, now directing his attention towards Lydia as he swings himself into the chair next to her, the last empty one at the table. "It's been awhile, huh?"

"Mhm," affirms Lydia. "How've you—?"

"What are you doing here?" bursts out Stiles, annoyance evident in his expression.

Isaac glances over at him, acting like he just noticed him.

"Stilinski," he says. "You're still alive. Cool."

Lydia hides her smile by taking a bite of green bean.

"If you'll remember, I'm not the one who dropped off of the face of the earth," points out Stiles.

"You kinda _did_ ," Isaac replies, stabbing his fork onto Lydia's plate and grabbing a piece of potato. Stiles looks furious. "At least I was in contact with the pack the whole time. What exactly were you doing? There was a Batman costume involved, right?"

Knowing Stiles' strong affinity for Marvel characters over the DC ones, Lydia lays her hand on his knee before turning to Isaac with a bright smile on her face.

"Isaac is a supernatural liaison for the Argents," she says, for Stiles' benefit. "Although I didn't know you were living here."

"Turns out it's an easier commute when you live six floors up from your office." Stiles makes an annoyed chortle, and Lydia bites back a retort about him having to fly to remote locations in order to commit brutal murder.

"You're going to help us, right?" Lydia asks Isaac as a plate is set in front of him.

He stabs a fork into his meat and saws at it enthusiastically with his knife, nodding his assent.

"Yeah, sure. It'll be just like high school. Bet you two would love to go back to high school, huh?" She whips her head around to glower at Isaac, feeling her stomach fall as she considers the implications behind his words. He looks up from his plate, expression plaintive, before he notices the fury in both of their expressions and blinks rapidly at them a few times. "What, too soon?" Lydia nods wordlessly. "Oookay. Hey, Chris, when are we getting started on the whole murdering The Collector thing?" he calls down the table.

"You know we don't do shop talk during meals," replies Chris calmly.

Isaac sighs, hunkers deeper into his chair and lifts his wine glass towards his lips. At the last minute, he tilts the glass towards Stiles and Lydia, smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well, you two. Welcome to the city of love."

* * *

Stiles has been pacing for twenty minutes.

"Did you notice that she didn't _commit_?" he asks for the fourth time.

Lydia drags her eyes upwards from the copy of _Thérèse Raquin_ that she'd plucked from the large library on the second floor, keeping her lips pressed together in the hope that her annoyance will be properly communicated by a mere look. She'd already answered this question, after all, when she had been washing her face, when she had been brushing out her hair, and when she had first slid between the luxurious sheets provided by the Argents.

Apparently, her silence isn't enough for Stiles, who looks over at her with slightly wild eyes, his hair sticking up in too many directions. Lydia sighs.

"Yes. I noticed."

"We have to _get_ her."

"She'll come around," says Lydia, eyes back on her book. "We're meeting with her after lunch tomorrow."

"But didn't you think that she seemed _cold_?"

"She's British," replies Lydia frankly.

"She's not going to help us."

"She isn't if we're both exhausted at the meeting due to never getting to sleep because _someone_ was pacing all night."

"I can't sleep," says Stiles dismissively. "I need more paper for my mystery board. Do you think there's a convenience store around here?"

"Next door to a mansion in the middle of nowhere? Mmm… probably not."

"How can you even read at a time like this?" demands Stiles, scrubbing a hand across his jaw, irked.

"A time like this… by which I'm assuming you mean _bedtime_?" He finally stops pacing long enough to look up from the fingers that he is ramming together in an effort to shake some of the energy out of his body. She can't help the softness of her voice when she sees that— the familiarity of his habits has always been Lydia's downfall when it comes to loving Stiles. "Do you want me to read to you?"

"Yeah," he says, husky. "Okay."

She picks up from the sentence she had been reading, knowing that the storyline won't matter as long as he can hear her voice.

"'La souffrance seule, l'horrible cuisson lui avait fait exiger un baiser de Thérèse, et, quand les lèvres de Thérèse s'étaient trouvées froides sur la cicatrice brûlante, il avait souffert davantage. Ce baiser obtenu par la violence venait de le briser.'"

"Oh shit," whines Stiles. "You didn't tell me it was in _French_."

Lydia is still laughing when he collapses onto the bed and crawls up to her, catching her bottom lip between his.

"I thought I might use the element of surprise."

"Good call," he replies, brushing his lips down her cheek and following the path down to her neck. "Take me down while I'm weak."

He kisses his way to her clavicle, her sternum, then back up to her lips, hands sliding up to her breasts. Lydia grips Stiles' hair and tries not to rut her hips too obviously against him, a plan which immediately fails when she moans. Stiles answers her with a groan of his own, and then his hand cups her, big and warm around her throbbing center.

"I want you," Lydia murmurs against his lips, feeling full and happy with that knowledge, because she _does._ She does want him. She wants to lie on this bed with Stiles Stilinski between her legs and kiss his stupidly pretty mouth; wants to feel his stubble under her tongue; wants to relearn the paths of his body that she has already committed to memory.

Stiles breathes in deeply before he pushes up on his hands, hovering over her, tucking some hair behind her ear.

"You've had me my whole life," he breathes out, fingers trembling as they dance down her cheek.

And something inside of her just… falls to her her toes. Settles there. Tears spring into Lydia's eyes and she closes them, squeezing them shut tight, as if she can block out how much she misses him even when he's right in front of her.

She kisses his palm, and isn't alarmed when his hand slides down her body, following the path of his head. For a moment, Lydia allows herself to get lost in the delicate, tender kisses he presses against her inner thighs. She feels the sun beating down on her in the dead of night as Stiles moves up to lay his hand flat against her stomach. He kisses her there before he pulls her legs over his shoulders. Lydia squints in the light of the sun as Stiles' breath heats her center, warming her all the way up to her breasts.

It's the moment pressing against her heart that finally wakes her from the fever dream that she had settled herself into.

"Stiles," she says abruptly. "I said _no_."

He looks up at her in surprise, blinking disorientedly, as if he is just remembering where they are. His voice is dry and cracked when he speaks; Lydia can't help but take notice of the soft whinge to it. She wants to protect him, but she can't.

She can't because he didn't protect her.

(And in the end, she should have known that Stiles Stilinski was all talk.)

"Lydia, _please_ ," he begs.

"No."

"Why."

"Because I said no."

"You'll let me fuck you, but you won't let me—?"

"Because you aren't _him_."

Stiles, from where he is settled between her legs, sucks in a deep, ragged breath.

"What?"

"You aren't… sometimes I think… Stiles, sometimes I get lost in how much I miss the boy who handed me the rainflowers and I let myself pretend that you're him. But you're _not_. You're not the same. I want him back, but he's not here, and I know he's not here because he wouldn't... he never scared me. You scare me."

"With the torture? Because you don't have to see that again, I don't have to do that in front of you, I _promise_ —"

"No." She cuts him off harshly, no kindness in her voice. "You scare me because you look just like somebody who died six years ago."

And here, right in this bedroom, she watches herself kill him the way he killed her when they were eighteen.

When he slides back up on the bed, lies on his side, and turns off the light, she can still feel his body shaking next to hers. Lydia moves closer, settling her knee between his legs, and presses her nose against his back as she wraps her arms around his torso.

She holds him until he stops trembling, for the boy she loves, for the boy she lost, for the way sometimes his mouth pulls up into the lopsided smile that she had been certain she would grow old with.

Lydia supposes now that it is still possible. You can still grow old with a ghost.

* * *

" _Only the pain, the horrible smarting pain, had made him demand a kiss from Thérèse, and when Thérèse's lips had proved to be cold against his burning scar, he suffered even more. This kiss, obtained by violence, had broken him."_

* * *

"How many are working there, again?"

From her position at the table, Lydia watches as Stiles' agitation increases at the third question Helena has asked in the last fifteen minutes. They'd put together a plan for the conversation he'd have with her, but from the very beginning, it became clear that she wasn't willing to sit back and simply listen to him speak. She sits at the head of the long conference room table, scribbling on a notepad with a heavy silver pen, and her face gives away nothing.

Lydia had learned around minute six to not bother looking at Chris for any absolution. He is equally as reticent, watching Stiles move ineloquently over the logistics of what they are up against.

"About fifty thousand in the main company, and then another twenty thousand working for an umbrella company."

"But how many are working with your collector?" asks Isaac. He, too, is holding a heavy silver pen, but Lydia has it on good authority that he is actually using it to doodle dirty words onto a notepad in different fonts.

She's glad someone in here is entertained.

"That's unclear," says Stiles, not for the first time, and Lydia almost wants to step in when she sees how antsy he is becoming, but instead she remains in her seat and watches him steadily, her eyes calm and insistant. He glances over at her, appearing just on the verge of helpless, and when his eyes lock onto hers, he settles once more. "But we actually have a contact who works within the confines of the company, so I believe we might be able to get information out of him regarding this subject."

"Who's your contact?" asks Helena.

"That's classified."

Lydia is relatively certain that Stiles has only said that to be stubborn. From the humorous look on Helena's face, she assumes the Argent leader knows that as well.

"How highly placed is he within their operation?"

Chris cutting in for the first time makes Lydia wonder exactly what stake he has in this particular discussion— if Helena decides that this conversation is a waste of their time, what losses will Chris suffer as a result? And, furthermore, would he be willing to take on an operation as enormous as this one without the firepower of the Argents behind him?

They need resources. That's why they're here. That's why Stiles is standing at the front of the empty conference room, answering questions in a voice that is simultaneously desperate and harassed. She knows that he is itching to _move_ , to just get started already, but Lydia knows as well as Chris does that this is a necessary evil.

So they'll jump through the hoops. It'll be fine. She hopes.

"To our knowledge, he is unaware of the secondary operation being run behind the scenes. He's just an employee." Lydia answers the question directly to Chris.

"How well do you know him?" asks Helena.

"Pretty well," answers Isaac, and Stiles startles. "What? I do research too."

"Really? They have the internet all the way where your head's stuck up your ass?"

"Boys," Lydia snaps.

"Sorry," they both grumble immediately.

"Mr. Stilinski," asks Helena, "What exactly is it that drew your interest to The Collector?"

"One of my informants came to me to talk to me about his efforts," Stiles says.

"Why you, specifically?"

Two mahogany eyes tilt towards the table as Stiles' lips seal shut. Knowing that the question has silenced him, Lydia speaks up.

"Because I was going to be collected."

Her voice isn't as tremendous as she feels; instead, it comes across factual, logical— controlled. Across the table, the look on Isaac's face, pained and bitter, tells her that he knows exactly what this means.

"So you've been keeping tabs on us," Isaac says quietly.

"Well, not you," replies Stiles. "But Scott and Lydia, yeah." He pauses. "Always."

"A man working for The Collector told us a few days ago that I'm an important piece in their collection. And, if The Collector isn't able to get me, he'll go after other supernatural communities until I give myself up." Lydia smiles wryly. "I'm not exactly willing to go down without a fight."

"And, Ms. Martin… why _exactly_ do they want you?" She turns to Chris, heart suddenly thundering loudly in her chest, because she had simply assumed that he had told this woman that he was bringing a supernatural creature onto the premises. "Don't mistake my words— I realize that you're a banshee. But why _you_?"

Lydia has never quite known the answer to that question. Never, not once, when she was asked it, or when she asked it to herself. Not when Peter Hale bit her. Not when he stole her mind from her, the one thing that she had always been safe in. Not when she had been trailing pieces of evidence to try to save one of her best friends and had inadvertently murdered the other one.

She has never, ever known why.

"Back in 2012, with the Deadpool," Chris begins. "The only person who was worth more than her was Scott McCall— a true alpha, if you'll remember."

"Interesting," Helena says, making a note on her pad. Then she puts her pen down. Stares at Lydia. "So. How much is your life worth?"

"Twenty million dollars." Her voice breaks.

"And why's that?"

Lydia squares her jaw, meeting the woman's gaze.

"Because I'm incredibly powerful," she replies, tilting her head to the side. "And I'm more intelligent than anybody in this room, including you."

There's a long pause.

"She's right," Stiles says. "On both accounts."

"If you're so powerful, why do you need our help?" asks Helena, still watching Lydia carefully.

"Because I'm ill-equipped to defend myself. I chose my mind over my powers."

She likes the fact that there is no apology in her voice. Just this once, it isn't a pretense.

"And what do you use your mind for, exactly?"

"I research neurogenic disorders and attempt to determine how natural and unnatural chemicals can combine to create a cure."

"You work in medicine," Helena says, looking impressed. Lydia shrugs.

"I don't deal with people."

"Yet clearly they're your motivator."

Lydia knows exactly why she can't look Stiles in the eye. It doesn't make it easier. She looks at Chris instead.

"We want to save these people, and we need your help," she tells him imploringly.

He nods at her.

"I know."

"But here's what I want to know," starts Helena. "Ms. Martin, if what you're saying is true, and you are the final piece of this man's collection… will you give yourself up to save everyone else? Clearly you set great value in other people's lives. But, at the end of the day, do you perceive them to be more important than your own?"

And this is it, the thing that she and Stiles have never spoken of— never even brought up, because Lydia knows what Stiles will say and Stiles knows what Lydia will say and neither of them quite have the strength to hear it.

Six years ago, she had stood on her front porch and begged him to stay. He hadn't turned around. She had spent years resenting him for it, _hating_ him, trying to fuck the pain away with strangers, trying to ice out the feeling by freezing her heart over. She had told herself, over and over and over again, that she would never do the same to him; that she could never be as cold and heartless.

But Kira smiles like she's a little kid still, her beam brighter than the light from her powers. Malia is always too hot or too cold, never comfortable, always in the middle. Meredith, as afraid as she is of being a monster, just wants to _help_. And Scott McCall, despite his father walking away from him, had been able to create a family out of a mismatched collection of teenagers. He deserves his own family now. A real one, as beautiful and brave as he has always been— as he had taught Lydia how to be.

"Yes," Lydia promises without hesitation. "If it comes to it, I'll give myself up."

* * *

They're lying in bed that night when Stiles finally says it. His hand is buried in the bag of gummy worms that he'd pawned off of Isaac earlier that day, and the other one is on the remote, searching for something to watch that they'll both like.

"Hey," he says conversationally. "I will fucking burn this world to the ground before I let you give yourself up to them."

When Lydia looks over at him, she sees the seriousness in his eyes— the _intent_ — and it curdles through her body, bringing fear up from her stomach and into her throat. She swallows it down, and it settles deep inside of her, planted there.

"We can't think like that." She means to be blasé, but there's no use trying to be much of anything around Stiles. "In the end, my life matters less, and you _know_ that. I know you know that."

"All I know is that I will lock you up in a tower and start calling you 'Rapunzel' before I let you become one of the collected. That's what I know. That's the only fact that matters to me."

She gently pulls the remote from his grip and begins navigating the channels, just for something to do with her hands.

"Does it ever scare you? What you would do for me?" Stiles doesn't answer her. "It scares me." When he's silent for too long, she finally allows herself to look at him. "What?"

"Nothing, I guess," he says, laughing humorlessly. "It's just weird, is all. When you're not really afraid of anything anymore, 'cause you've already become the monster under the bed."

"You're not a monster," whispers Lydia, tender despite herself.

He shakes his head.

"No. No, you're right. Monster was the wrong word. But without you I'm just what they say I am. I'm not a monster. I'm… void."

It's natural, it's _instinct_ , to want to prove him wrong. After all, this image is exactly the normal that she's obsessed with; the one in the picture. Man and wife, lying in bed together in their pajamas, chattering about their days while the TV murmurs softly in the background.

She can't give him that, and she can't give herself that, either. Because when neither of them can fall asleep that night, Lydia knows exactly why. It's not because of the monster under the bed at all. It's because of the emptiness inside of it.

* * *

The shooting range is hidden in the basement of the mansion. Although much of the bottom floor is dedicated to fight skills— there's a room for swordplay, a room for physical sparring, and even an archery room that makes Lydia's stomach clench with loss— the shooting range is tucked away into the far corner, as though keeping the most lethal and senseless weapons out of the way will prevent them from falling into the wrong hands.

Lydia uses Isaac's key card to swipe into the large, concrete room, stepping inside of it warily. As the door swings shut behind the two of them, Stiles' hand on the small of her back is the only reminder of the outside world. The shooting range is empty and silent at this point in the afternoon, despite the rows and rows of stations set up so that multiple people can practice at the same time.

She stutters to a stop, looking around the range, at the multiple guns lined up on the walls, increasing in size as they go. Stiles walks over to them without hesitation, scanning until he finds one to his liking, then snatches it up and places it on the table. It only takes him a few moments to dig up some goggles and earmuffs, and then they're standing next to each other in front of the targets, and Lydia can't quite remember how they got there.

She'd been staring at the gun that Stiles had handled with ease and efficiency, thinking of all the times that he'd had one pointed between his eyes. And now, he acts like that's just… nothing.

"Okay," Stiles says. "This is a .22 caliber. They're good for beginners because there's way less kickback, but there's still some, so watch for the recoil."

"Okay," agrees Lydia, reaching for the gun with an almost robotic arm, but Stiles frowns at her, holding it out of her reach.

"Yeah right," he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"What?" she asks indignantly.

"I know you too well to just hand this thing off to you." He turns to face her, resting the silver gun on the palm of his hand. "Okay, ready? So. Here's the frame. All the parts of the gun are connected to it, that's why you experience a kickback. This is the barrel, which you know, but to be clear, that's the metal tube that the bullet goes through." He slides his finger along the side of the gun. "The chamber is here, yeah? And this is the cylinder release; that's the latch that you gotta touch before you actually shoot, otherwise the safety's clicked in. This right here is the hammer, that's what hits the firing pin that allows for the bullet to ignite. And then this is called the sight. You use it for aim, but we're not gonna worry about that yet, okay?"

He moves through it slowly, fingers dancing along the gun, and with anybody else he would probably have to repeat it, but she is Lydia Martin, and if there is anything more captivating to her than learning, it's Stiles Stilinski's fingers.

"Understood," she says, reaching for the gun again.

"Nope. I'm gonna show you the stance now."

"I think I know what people look like when they shoot a gun," Lydia replies, impatient.

"Maybe I just want you to admire my form," suggests Stiles. She rolls her eyes and takes a step back, watching as he gets into position. "Nuh-uh. You can't see anything back there. Get your cute little ass up here."

Lydia stomps forward, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him pointedly as she stands to his left.

"You ready?" asks Stiles softly. Then, without waiting for her to respond, he clicks the safety, narrows his eyes at the target, and pulls the trigger.

Lydia feels her mouth go dry. She has watched him shoot before, but somehow it's different in the quiet intimacy of the shooting range. His bare arms tense as he shoots, and his jaw sets itself more deeply than usual. She feels the shot reverberate through her as Stiles effortlessly gets the bullet through the ten.

Then he turns to her, eyes bright.

"How did you learn how to do that?"

He licks his bottom lip.

"I didn't have a TV."

"Stiles."

He answers too quickly, cutting her off before she can even finish saying his name.

"I was _desperate_ , Lydia. Turns out that there's a lot of shit you can get done when you're scared out of your goddamn mind."

Suddenly, she doesn't much feel like touching the gun.

"I don't…" Lydia hesitates, not sure what she means to say to him. But Stiles, being Stiles, catches the helpless look in her eyes and shakes his head, his own eyes turning warm.

"C'mere," he says coaxingly. Stiles clicks the safety back on before handing her the gun, swapping positions with her. Lydia slowly raises the gun into the air, staring at it like it's poison. "You watched what I did, right?"

"Yes," whispers Lydia.

"How was I standing?"

"Your… your feet were apart."

"Okay," he whispers, moving behind her and sliding his hands down her waist. "Do it."

She parts her legs, feeling Stiles' hand curve around her ass and squeeze lightly as she does so.

"I'm holding a gun, you know," points out Lydia. "I don't need you distracting me."

"I'm helping you with your _stance_ ," he says teasingly. "What else did you notice, Lyds?"

"Your hands, they were… they were both on the gun. And your arms were locked."

"Right," he agrees softly. "'Cause the kickback, remember."

"Your ass was out, too." This time, her voice is light. She moves back slowly, rubbing herself against his crotch.

"That's because you always want to be in an aggressive stance," Stiles tells her, and from the unsteadiness of his voice, she can tell that he is attempting to ignore the way his body is responding to her ass grinding against him. "Y-you want to be prepared to shoot. Tense, you know? Actually," he moves his hand around to her stomach. "You wanna tighten your core so that your body is properly supported."

"My core is _always_ tight for you," she says lightly, before clicking off the safety and firing the gun.

The bullet actually does hit the tarp, although it errs to the side and doesn't get onto a number.

"Nice," says Stiles appreciatively. "Better than I did my first time."

"Maybe I'm just a better shot than you."

"Or maybe these super thin leggings give you superpowers," he suggests, slapping her ass playfully to prove a point.

"Oh, now, don't be _crazy_ ," Lydia replies, reloading for another pull. "There's no such thing as the supernatural."

* * *

They shoot until Lydia finally hits the tenmark, although she's not altogether certain that it was from skill and not sheer luck.

"Good," Stiles says as he removes his goggles, satisfied. "We'll try again tomorrow, yeah?"

"'Try?'" replies Lydia, raising her eyebrows as she hands the gun back to him. "There's nothing 'try' about that."

She gestures with her chin to the tarp that is now full of holes, holes that _she_ created. The satisfaction that is coursing through her makes her feel so light that she wants to laugh. Instead, she takes off her earmuffs and kisses Stiles on the cheek before removing his as well, tucking them back into their cabinet.

"You were amazing," Stiles says, voice warm. "Seriously, Lydia, you were."

"I know," she says decisively. Then: "I'm hungry."

"Dinner's not for two hours."

"So," Lydia says, turning towards him so that she can grab his hand and tug him out of the room, away from the shooting range. "Let's find the kitchen."

They meander through the halls for thirty minutes before Lydia finally gives up and texts Isaac. She then pretends to have a sixth sense, leaving Stiles gaping at her as she manages to find the kitchen amongst the maze of rooms— including a billiards room, a trophy room, and a second library that Lydia hadn't seen before.

The kitchen is empty, as it's too early to have started making dinner, but that doesn't deter Stiles, and Lydia follows his lead with no comment. She hops up onto the long wooden counter in the middle of the room, double the length of their king sized bed upstairs. Stiles roots through the fridge until he eventually comes up with bread, butter, cheese, bacon, and tomato.

"The staples," he tells her, nodding sagely as he heads over to one of the stovetops. "Can you chop this?"

Lydia kicks her feet happily as she takes the tomatoes and knife from him and begins carefully slicing.

"Am I doing this right?" she asks.

"Yeah," confirms Stiles without turning around, and she tries to ignore the way she glows at his trust in her as she turns her attention back to her task. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Mhm?"

"Could you tell me more about your job?"

It's certainly not the route that Lydia had thought he would go, but then again, she's smart enough to know that there is nothing Stiles loves about her more than the way she thinks. She hands the tomatoes off to him, and his back is away from her, flipping the bread in the frying pan, when she begins to speak.

"I work in a university funded lab, researching the interactions of different chemicals with neurotransmitters."

"Do you wear a lab coat?" he inquires, turning around just long enough to wiggle his eyebrows at her.

"Every day," Lydia informs him, and Stiles places a hand over his heart, moaning exaggeratedly. The spatula hits his shirt, splattering some butter onto it, making Lydia's mouth quirk upwards into a smile. "Plus lab goggles, stilettos, a pencil skirt, sometimes _latex gloves_ —"

"Jesus Christ, give a man a second to breathe, will you?"

She smirks.

"Sometimes I have to interact with patients who we run trials on, but mostly it's just me and the chemicals."

"What made you change your mind about being a mathematician?"

She doesn't want to answer him; doesn't want to tell him that meeting Claudia, watching the sheriff's world get taken away from him all over again, had given Lydia the desperate, clawing feeling of needing to _solve_. If she can fix this for somebody else, if she can make a difference, if she can _help…_ if she is powerful enough, she wants to use that. She at least wants to try.

"Let me ask you a question."

"Yeah, shoot," Stiles says, flipping the grilled cheese with aplomb.

"The other night, with what I told you… you were upset. And then the next day, you weren't. Why not?"

"You mean about why you won't let me—?"

"Yes," she says quickly, cutting him off.

"Oh." His smile is lopsided when he turns around. "'Cause you still love him. You love him so much that you're not willing to let him go long enough to let yourself let _me_ in. But the thing is… as different as I am, I'm still me. I'm still the same person. Sarcasm is my only defense, I still like research better than fighting, and I still love you more than I realized it was possible to love someone. So if you love him… you love a part of me, too. And I just have to get that part back."

He flips the grilled cheese onto a plate, then hands it off to her.

"What if you can't?" Lydia asks lowly, her grip tight on the plate.

"If it wasn't possible, you wouldn't have let me fuck you in the first place," he says earnestly. "I believe that so strongly, Lydia. I just do."

She is breathless, caught up in looking into the eyes that aren't quiet anymore; haven't been in weeks.

"I don't know how you do it," she admits, reaching up to touch his cheek. "All this time. I don't know how you can be you but also be… _you_."

"You wanna elaborate on that?" Stiles grins.

"You're… pessimistic and angry and bitter and… just, the most _hopeful_ person I've ever met."

"I actually have an answer for you." He takes the plate from her hands. Sets it on the counter beside her. Places his hands on her upper thighs. "You," he murmurs, eyes drooping down to her lips. "It's you, Lydia."

* * *

Once again, Helena is all business.

Lydia knows that it's a good sign that the conference room is far more full of people than it had been last time, but there's a part of her that is even more on edge than she had been before. Everybody is _looking_ at them, and not for the first time, Lydia realizes how much they must stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this. Lydia, a 5'3" banshee. And Stiles, a human like the rest of them, but there's something manic about his darkness that doesn't quite fit with the Argent look. They're all hushed, almost serene in the way they speak and present themselves. And Stiles is loud, energetic, and so overtly broken that sometimes Lydia wonders when he had stopped being able to hide his hurt.

But then she remembers, as she always does eventually, that it's not that he doesn't hide it. It's that she's learned how to see through his defenses, just as he had done for her all those years ago.

"How many of us would you need?" one of the men asks. He's been squinting suspiciously at Stiles the whole presentation, while he reiterated everything that they had told Helena, and Lydia suspects that he is questioning Stiles' motivation. He's probably right to, if she's being honest with herself. Stiles wouldn't be here if it weren't for the pack. He doesn't stake his life on strangers— he never has.

"We have our own team," Stiles answers, almost dismissively. "If any of you want to join us, that's fine, but we don't need bodies. What we need is supplies, money—"

"Aid with strategy," Chris adds. "You can't make the entire plan by yourself, Stiles. You're not used to running an op this big."

Stiles nods his concession.

"You're right. We need brainpower too. But we don't need your lives— you don't have to offer them to us, or anything. Just, y'know… help."

The Argents don't seem less tense after that, but it would be hypocritical of Lydia to invite them to remove the sticks that they apparently have shoved up their asses. (Which, God, is such a disgustingly Stiles thing to say. She suddenly realizes that Chris had never _asked_ if the two of them had wanted to share a room— he had just stuck them together without saying a word, and Lydia hadn't questioned it. Not for the first time, she wonders if there is something inside of this new Stiles that everybody but Lydia can see, simply because she is too afraid to find it there.)

"Chris, how much do you trust them?"

Mr. Argent's face doesn't change, but the hesitance in his eyes is just enough to show Lydia that this isn't a question that is usually a part of their briefings. She knows that the Argents are used to being their own odd version of superheroes, but suddenly it occurs to Lydia that this type of plea for help might be out of the norm for them.

This community that they're in, of people who know about the supernatural… it's larger than she realizes. There's an entire world that nobody knows about, and the Argents are used to being the sole protectors of that. They have no concept of the power and strength of one person named Scott McCall. They are so enormous that they have no concept of the small lives he had saved.

He and _Allison_ had saved.

"I have seen these kids save innocent people countless times. I have seen their positive influence on each other, on their peers, and on my daughter. I know Stilinski went off the grid, but I truly believe that he perceives himself to be doing the right thing most of the time. And Allison— she trusted Ms. Martin. She cared about her. If she trusted Lydia, so should we."

"It's true," pipes up Isaac. "Allison didn't trust easy, but I remember sophomore year, everybody thought Lydia was a kanima and Allison never questioned Stiles when he said that she wasn't. She believed him."

"Mr. Stilinski," says one of the women at the table. "I expect that we are correct in our suspicion that you are romantically entangled in Ms. Martin?"

"Uh," he stutters. "Kinda? I guess?"

"Well then," the woman says, nodding at Helena. "I trust that you know my vote."

Isaac frowns.

"Is that seriously necessary?" he butts in. Helena turns to look at him with sharp eyes.

"Perhaps," she says slowly, then lets those eyes drift over to Stiles. "Mr. Stilinski, I think it's time we discuss the terms of any deal which would be made between the two of us."

Lydia's heart jumps hopefully. Negotiations. They're opening up negotiations. Stiles' eyes meet hers quickly before he turns back to Helena, bowing his head in a way that's almost deferential.

"Yeah. Go ahead."

Helena places her pen down and folds her hands over each other, still watching him carefully.

"We have no background of you, aside from Chris' word and Mr. Lahey's history of attending school with the two of you— after which you, Mr. Stilinski, mysteriously removed yourself from the lives of your friends and family. You have now only re-emerged to ask for our time, money, and protection. We have no prior experience or affiliation with you. We have absolutely no reason to trust you. So I'd like to ask you to give us one, once and for all."

"Okay," he says slowly. "What do you have in mind?"

"If you betray us," begins Helena. "Ms. Martin's life becomes ours."

She can physically see the breath whoosh from his body.

"Listen—"

"If what you say is true and they are looking to become more violent if they don't get Ms. Martin, _we_ get to decide when it is time to give her up. And if anything you do or say is not exactly as you tell us or have told us, we get to keep her here and decide what to do with her."

"You can't kill her."

She expects the first person to speak to be Stiles, but it's Isaac instead— his angry voice cuts through the thick, weighty silence in the conference room.

"Mr. Lahey, you will remember that you are merely a guest in our home. You do not get to command or order us."

His mouth snaps shut.

"Would you kill me?" Lydia asks. She tries not to think about it all— about the half-life she's been living since Stiles left, about the job that she had fallen in love with to replace him, about the weekends with Scott and holidays with the pack and the soft thump of her heart every time Stiles kisses her shoulders when they're falling asleep.

She tries not to think about what she would be losing, were the Argents to kill her.

"Not if you were in the dark," replies Helena. "If you were in the dark, we would keep you here and use your scientific and medical expertise to our advantage." Her voice gets a little kinder. "You'd be giving up your freedom, but not your life."

Logically, Lydia knows that Stiles isn't lying to them. She knows he isn't betraying the Argents. And yet the strum of fear that thumps through her doesn't seem to have quite made that connection. So much could go wrong.

But they're here for a reason. They're here because they need help.

"We have to think about it." Stiles' voice is almost as stern as Helena's, almost as clinical as Lydia's would be in this situation. "Which isn't an admission of guilt, it's an admission of me not fucking around with Lydia's life."

He stands up, dismissing himself from the room, and Lydia follows him, suddenly feeling more like an object than she has since she was fifteen. For several minutes, she trails Stiles as he storms through the hallways of the mansion, past the library, past the armory, past the screening room and the smaller meeting room. She follows until he finally stops walking and simply stands in the middle of a hallway, illuminated by the pale light of the waning sun.

From behind him, Lydia can see the tenseness of his back, the heaviness of his breathing, and the way his fists clench and unclench. His head is tilted downwards towards the plush red carpet, glaring at it.

She knows it's not possible to fix it. But she's still going to try.

"Stiles," Lydia says quietly, taking a step forward. "I trust you."

For a moment, he stills. His fingers unclench themselves. His shoulders fall a little. Then he lifts his chin, straightens up again, and walks away.

This time, Lydia doesn't follow.

* * *

"Can we _do_ something?"

Stiles' voice comes out in a whine that is dangerously close to unattractive. In fact, when she rubs her thighs together following that statement, it is only because he'd whipped his fluffy white towel off of his torso and used it to tousle his hair. Other than that, Lydia would probably not be thinking about fucking him. Not at all.

"Do me," she suggests hopefully, patting the bed next to her invitingly. Because as incredible as these last few days have been, Stiles hasn't touched her in nearly a week. She's starting to think that all of the shooting, tennis playing, and sparring practice had just been to tire her out. Which, unfortunately, has actually been working.

He turns around, noting the look on her face with a grim expression crossing his own features.

"So you noticed," he says flatly.

"I noticed that we've gone a strangely long time without fucking? Yes."

"One time we went six years," Stiles replies unhelpfully.

"Stiles. What are you doing?"

He shrugs, reaching into his suitcase to pull out a pair of boxer-briefs and tug them on.

"I realized something the other day."

Lydia's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Go on."

"I realized that... if I wasn't a version of myself that you wanted touching you, then I didn't want to touch you either." He shrugs, a little sheepish. "So I'm withholding sex."

She blinks in shock from where she is lying on the bed, suddenly feeling terribly flustered.

"Are you saying that you won't fuck me until I let you go down on me? Is this _blackmail_?"

"No!" He holds his hands up, a little alarmed. "No, it's just… fuck, Lydia. Every day I'm around you, I feel these pieces of myself that I don't want to keep just… sliding away from me. Sometimes I feel like I could get _better_. And if I can, it means that maybe you can fall in love with me again."

It's startling, that he thinks she's not in love with him. Then it's startling to realize that she considers herself to be, no holds barred— of course she loves him. He's Stiles Stilinski. Lydia is almost breathless as she looks at him, realizing the depth of _knowing_ that she feels.

And the final, and most startling thing of all, is that she behaves just as she did at sixteen-years-old.

She keeps it to herself.

"So in your view, the way to get back to yourself is to teach me how to shoot and let me kick your ass at tennis?"

"The tennis thing is mainly for the short skirts," admits Stiles as he pulls a shirt over his head. "And the shooting is necessary— you're getting _really_ good, Lydia."

The note of pride in his voice makes her glow. He's staring at her, eyes crinkled with his sweet smile, and all Lydia can think is that her best friend is proud of her.

"Hey," she says abruptly. "Let's go on an adventure."

"An adventure?"

They've been stuck in this house for a week while the Argents go through internal negotiations, privately discussing what they're willing to give to this particular cause and doing their own personal evaluations of The Collector's organization. It's not that they're hostages, but there's certainly an implication that they aren't allowed to leave the house, and neither of them have tried.

Which doesn't matter, in the end, because there's almost too much to do here. Lydia's been digging her way through the family archives while Stiles lifts in the basement— an image that she is incapable of reconciling herself to. The laughter that had burst out of her the first time he told her he was going downstairs to lift had made Stiles actively, noticeably pout.

"There's so many floors we haven't looked at yet," points out Lydia. "We might as well poke around."

"Without a map?" Stiles says sarcastically. "I dunno, Lydia. We might never make it out."

She hops off of the bed and walks over to the door of their bedroom, still clad in her pajamas.

"Come on," she coaxes, pausing dramatically. "At least we'll be lost _together_."

He follows, as she knows he will, and they spend the next several hours wandering aimlessly through the halls of the Argent mansion, their hands loosely entwined as they walk around.

It's easy to tell which parts of the house are additions when they finally reach the oldest part— there are literally torches that line the walls, not that they're actually lit, and the floors are made of stone. Their voices echo loudly as they speak, mostly swearing angrily about having no clue where they are in the house. Eventually, they climb almost all the way to the top of the mansion, where the carpets are thicker and the rooms are more homely.

Each door has a brass plaque on it, some shinier and newer than others. It's midway down the hallway when Lydia realizes that they are in the midst of the family tree in the mansion, dating back generations. Each door has the name of a family member on it— sometimes two, which Lydia assumes is married couples. They are immersed in the evidence of hundreds of lives, of warriors, of heroes. They are walking through a story.

She picks a door at random, one with a tarnished plaque placed on it, and peers inside of the room.

There's a pretty pink flowered bedspread, threadbare now. The bed is shorter than the ones Lydia is used to, as is the matching armchair and settee. On the dresser, she sees an old, bristly hair brush sitting under a thick layer of dust, as well as a framed picture of Katherine Hepburn.

"They each have a room," Stiles says, voicing Lydia's thoughts. "Which means…."

She turns around, eyes wide.

"I know." Lydia mashes her lips together. "Allison."

It takes them another hour and a half to find it. They go up and down several floors, wandering through the shrines to each individual Argent family member. Occasionally, Lydia peers into the room, which eventually leads to a game where she and Stiles guess in which era the room was decorated. Some of them have beds with rumpled, unmade sheets and pillows on the floor. Some of them have thick layers of dust which indicates that nobody has been inside in years.

But by the time they get to Allison M., Lydia has already prepared herself for how unlived in the room is going to be.

Stiles pushes the door open first, waiting for her to walk through with a sad, expectant din to his eyes. She squeezes his hand one last time before walking ahead of him, her heart in her throat as she flicks on the light to the room and allows her breath to catch.

It's not that the room smells like Allison— she's been dead for almost eight years. But somehow, it still manages to exude Allison. The white bedspread with teal pillows, the flowers that Allison appears to have sketched onto the teal wall with a stencil, the books set on top of the window seat. There's a poster of the Eiffel tower on the wall, and another one of the cast of The OC, because Allison had secretly shame-watched that show whenever she was sick. There's a broken bow hung up on the wall, a little smaller than Lydia was used to seeing in Allison's hand.

"You okay?" asks Stiles, voice thick, but Lydia just nods, almost as if she's in a trance, and moves through the room.

Some of Allison's jewelry is still on the dresser— Lydia recognizes that necklace from the day they had gone to her favorite vintage store together, and Allison had fallen in love with it. And there's a pair of earrings that Allison had borrowed from her and never given back. Lydia hadn't even realized she was missing them because she was too busy missing her best friend.

"Maybe not," she whispers, her voice making her cringe as she hears how close she is to crying. Lydia sits down on the bed, trying to catch her breath, and that's when she spots a picture set on the bedside table. In it, Allison's arm is around Lydia, whose hand is on her hip as she smiles at the camera. On the other side, Allison's hand is clasped in Scott's, and next to Scott, sixteen-year-old Stiles Stilinski stands with a large, ridiculous beam on his face.

The four of them. Before everything fell apart.

She doesn't remember the picture being taken, or the outfit she was wearing, or what she had been thinking about Stiles at that moment in time. But she does remember what is always clear and always has been— she loved Allison. Allison was her best friend, the person she admired the most, the person whose strength and poise Lydia had always wanted to emulate.

"Okay," Lydia says shakily. "Definitely not."

Stiles settles onto the bed with her without another word, taking her in his arms and just holding her.

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing away one of her tears with his thumb. "I know something that might make you smile."

"What?" Lydia replies, skeptical.

Stiles points to the bedside table.

"I'm pretty sure that's Allison's diary."

Lydia glances at him, hesitating, before giving into her curiosity and snatching up the book, opening it to a random page.

"If there aren't at least thirty-six sentences about my beauty and intelligence in here, it's a fraud and I refuse to believe it's real."

"If there isn't one comment about how you and I are definitely destined to get married, I'm gonna call bullshit too."

It's only later, when Lydia is sitting between Stiles legs and reading a passage from the diary out loud in a hushed voice, that she realizes that this is the best day she has had in six years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I am so terribly sorry for the wait on this chapter. I've been swamped with school, running the Stydia Big Bang, work, more school, and then on top of that, I got sick! So first, I have to thank all of you for your patience. I know this wait was super long, and I truly wish I'd been able to get my shit together, but alas, I could not. I hope a 10k chapter makes up for it!
> 
> Secondly, I gotta thank Maggie for her patience as well. She's absolutely a saint for putting up with me. Speaking of patience, I want to thank Jade and Rachel for theirs in waiting for this chapter and also in editing it. I know it was super long and a doozy and you two are saints. 
> 
> The next chapter will be up the 15th, it's another chapter by yours truly, and I have it on good authority that it will be about the same length as this one. 
> 
> Have a great week, everybody! 
> 
> <3 Rachel


	12. Anthurium (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthurium, or anthurium andraeanum.
> 
> Hospitality, abundance, happiness.
> 
> Anticipation.

"Yep, this guy definitely hates me."

Lydia turns around to see Stiles face to face with a chestnut brown horse. Both of them are staring suspiciously at each other, although Lydia would wager that Stiles seems a bit more irritated than the mighty steed with whom he is currently having a staring contest.

"Aw, you don't hate anybody, do you Musket?" Lydia asks, brushing over to the two of them and running her hand down the horse's nose. "No, you most certainly don't."

The horse whinnies slightly and nuzzles into Lydia's hand.

"Oh my god," complains Stiles. "You're totally a horse person, aren't you? What, do all animals love you? Birds help you get ready in the morning, right?"

"Only by pecking at you so that you leave me alone," replies Lydia lightly. "I'd never get anything done without them guarding the bathroom door."

Musket makes another noise, and Lydia finally offers him the sugar cubes that she'd been holding in her left hand, watching as he delightedly laps them from her palm.

"Ugh, I bet you had a horse when you were younger, didn't you? You totally did, and you named it after some great literary character from a book you were too young to read."

"Excuse me," Lydia says. "I didn't have a horse." She waits a beat, turning to look at Stiles' skeptical expression. "What? I didn't. Heathcliff was a Shetland Pony."

He's in the middle of gaping at her with a tremendous combination of emotions that Lydia could never even begin to label, when they're interrupted by the stable door opening. Isaac stands in the bright sunlight, glancing around until he finally spots them.

"We have to go," says Isaac without preface, striding up to the two of them. AK nudges him with her nose as he passes, and he gives her a cursory pat on the flank before continuing along his way. "Helena's sources came through."

"Sources?" Lydia echoes, while Stiles scowls heavily next to her at Isaac's inconvenient appearance.

"Contacts. People who work with the Argents."

"What did they find?" asks Stiles, following Isaac as he walks towards the entrance of the barn, only a little bit of resentment in his expression.

Lydia isn't sure why he's so upset in the first place. She'd had to _beg_ him to go horseback riding with her. Still, she entwines her fingers in his as they walk up to the house, feeling a strange, familiar yearning in her stomach to make him smile.

"They found someone who was willing to blab," Isaac shrugs, crunching through the gravel stones on the way past the gardens. "A former employee who wants to talk about operational inconsistencies."

"How high up was he?" asks Stiles, his voice urgent. "Like, was he in the shit?"

"Charming," Lydia says disdainfully.

"He wasn't clear about what he did and didn't know, but he definitely knows something." Isaac slides over to an entrance to the house that Lydia hadn't even noticed, sliding his keycard through the reader before pressing his thumbprint on it. The door clicks open, and Isaac holds it open for Lydia. A moment after she gets inside, she hears a crash and a loud swear and assumes that he dropped it on Stiles.

Idiots.

"Where are we meeting him?"

"Montmartre," Isaac tells her, smirking at Stiles' grunt behind the two of them. "He requested somewhere busy, filled with tourists, which works well for us anyways because they won't be able to spot you two in a place full of people. So we're meeting at him in the Square Louise-Michel."

"Perfect," Lydia says firmly. "We'll just run upstairs and change, then."

Isaac grabs her arm, pulling her away from the left she's about to turn.

"Nope. Not quite."

"What?" asks Stiles, following behind the two of them, his face still pinched with annoyance about having the door shut on him.

"We need to be dressed like tourists, which means we have to seem tacky, so you can't use your regular clothes. Well, Stiles, you can. Lydia, not so much."

Stiles flips Isaac off behind his back as he swipes his keycard through another reader.

"So are we buying new outfits?" asks Lydia, ignoring this behavior.

"Nope," responds Isaac as he takes a step back from the door and allows it to swing open. "No need."

Lydia peers inside as the lights in the room flicker on. From where she's standing, she can see rows and rows of clothing racks. As she steps into the doorway, she takes note of the racks of shoes, sunglasses, scarves, handbags, and even wigs.

It looks like a costume closet, with clothes of all different styles and sizes. To her right, there's a whole wall of tuxedos. To her left, there are shelves full of paraphernalia from hundreds of different sports teams from all over the world.

And just when Lydia thinks she has already seen the most beautiful thing her eyes will lay upon that day, she realizes that she can _just_ make out a display case full of diamond jewelry at the opposite end of the room.

"Oh my god," she murmurs, quite certain that she has just now re-experienced the feeling of falling in love.

"Get in losers," says Isaac, a note of amusement in his voice. "We're going shopping."

* * *

Stiles makes all of them take the tram on the way up to Montmartre.

Of the three of them, Isaac is the most embarrassed. He pulls his Giants hat low over his ears, letting his sandy curls spring over the edges of the royal blue cap. While Stiles presses a hand against the glass pane on the tram, panting excitedly against the window, Isaac attempts to turn his face away from the other tourists crowded into the tiny box.

Lydia would tease him about it, but she's in the same boat at the moment. The fact that they're crammed onto this tiny, unsanitary vehicle with a plethora of tourists is one of the most humiliating things about today, only second to the New York Mets baseball hat that Stiles had jammed onto her head a few hours ago. Logically, she knows that nobody in Montmartre is going to point an accusatory finger at her and claim that Lydia Martin is spitting in the face of fashion, but she's still grateful for the big black sunglasses that cover her face.

"You know, you could act a little bit excited to be here," Stiles says, peering back at Lydia. His eyes are bright under the brim of the Mets cap that is perched on his head, and despite the bite to his words, there's nothing annoyed about his tone.

"I _could_ ," Lydia concedes. "But that would require me wanting to use my energy for that, which I do not want to do."

"Okay," Stiles says easily. "Instead you can use it for pouting."

Wow. One point to Stilinski.

One point out of a million, but still. It's impressive in its own right.

She doesn't realize she's staring at him, at the way he presses his hand up against the glass, until the tram comes to an abrupt stop and they find themselves flooding out of it with the other tourists, most of whom are American. Lydia half expects Isaac to lead them to an obscure location behind a hidden alleyway. Instead, he follows all of the tourists up a steep incline lined with brick, heading towards what Lydia assumes is the heart of Montmartre.

It's a warm, sunny day, which means the area is jam-packed with people. As Stiles' eyes widen, taking in everything around him with a verve that Lydia hasn't seen in ages, she can't help reaching out to grab his hand, folding their fingers together. The quizzical expression on Stiles' face only makes her shrug, playing it off as if it's nothing.

"I don't want you to get lost."

He stares at her for one moment longer before squeezing her hand tighter and following Isaac up the hill at a quicker pace, as though all the drag in his feet had vanished when their eyes met.

"It's just up here," Isaac calls back to them, barely turning around. As they finally hit the main square, Stiles' enthusiasm is at an all-time high, and that's when Lydia realizes it— he's never really travelled before. His mom had died when he was a little kid, and his dad had been the _sheriff_. He was eighteen when he left home, and Lydia doesn't know much about his life as an adult but it is suddenly occurring to her how _small_ it must have been.

She suddenly recalls the trip that she and Scott had taken to Italy and feels shame crawl through her veins, just for a moment, at the fact that life had gone on without Stiles.

"This is where the Moulin Rouge is, right?" Stiles asks, as Isaac leads them towards a cafe with little tables outside.

"Mhm."

"So do you think Nicole Kidman is going to be here?" he teases, and Lydia dips her head down to hide her laugh underneath the brim of her baseball cap.

Isaac answers his question, saving Lydia from having to do it. "Yeah, just for you, Stilinski."

She expects Stiles to flip Isaac off or respond in similar fashion, but instead he just smiles broader and pulls out an iron chair for Lydia. A waiter comes over, and the three of them order cappuccinos. At the last minute, Isaac adds an order of _boudin noir_ , and the waiter makes direct eye contact with him before nodding discreetly and heading off in another direction.

"Is everyone in the _world_ an Argent?" asks Stiles, annoyed. Lydia pats him on the knee.

"Yes, Stiles. Everyone in the world is an Argent. Including you. Surprise."

Stiles tosses her a narrow eyed look that would generally make Lydia have to fight to keep down a smirk, but she's distracted by Isaac's hand curling into a ball on the table.

"That's him," he hisses out of the corner of his mouth, gesturing with his head towards a short, skinny, nervous looking man who is pushing up his glasses as he walks towards to their table. "Follow my lead, you two."

"Monsieur Lamoureux," the man says, nervously sticking his hand out. "May I join you for some _boudin noir_?"

"Sit," Isaac says, gesturing to the only empty seat at the square table, right across from Lydia. "I'd like you to meet my associates, Ms. Aldric and Mr. Malapry."

He speaks with the same British accent as Helena does, causing Stiles to do a double take and look at him oddly. Lydia, however, simply extends her hand to the man and graciously shakes it, inwardly cringing at the way his sweaty palm feels against her skin.

"Timothy Rice. It's nice to meet you."

"Why did you decide to defect from Valetudine?" Stiles asks, his hard voice cutting through the pleasantries. The pieces of him that Lydia had been able to spot in this new, unfamiliar version slip away, and for a moment, she flashes back to the dress that used to be white and is now indelibly mutilated.

Glancing over at Stiles, Lydia lets herself harden just a little bit more, mimicking his stability. It's possible that she won't be able to handle this confrontation without becoming detached, and even if she _could_ , Lydia isn't willing to risk it.

At this point, she is finished with trusting her own strength. She doesn't know where it lies or what inspires it.

Or if what used to inspire it even exists anymore.

"I realized that they were a front for something I didn't want to be a part of."

If Lydia listens closely, she can catch a glimpse of a midwestern accent, stretching his mouth wide. It reminds her of Maddy, with her sweet voice and sweeter eyes, and the instinct to protect this man almost tugs her out of her resolve to feel nothing. But Stiles is so broken, so damaged, and Lydia can't follow him, she has to _pull_ him instead.

"What are you referring to?" Isaac asks, leaning forward in his seat.

"I… I don't quite _know_ ," admits Timothy. "I wasn't a part of the executive board or anything… I mean, we all got information, but little bits and pieces of it. I've found that at fortune 500 companies like this, it's like that almost every time, but this… this felt different. This was different."

"When did you realize it was?" questions Stiles, his voice accusatory.

"About four months before I left," Timothy says with certainty. "I fought with myself for months, trying to figure out if I should do something, but—"

"But you didn't, because it doesn't concern you," Stiles says, sitting back in his chair and observing the man with an air of disgust.

Timothy places his hands in his lap, twisting them together anxiously. Isaac throws Stiles an annoyed look.

"Mr. Malapry, I will remind you that you are invited to leave at any time."

It would be slightly more threatening if they didn't know that Isaac was putting on a fake British accent, but the claws on the table are certainly a nice touch.

"And I'll remind you, Mr. _Lamoureux_ , that this is my investigation as well."

"What first made you suspicious?"

Lydia directs her question towards Timothy, her voice loud but her eyes soft, trying to make him comfortable enough to answer.

"The top floor," says Timothy, shrugging. "It's locked. That's where the CEO would normally work, but nobody ever meets him, and no one ever sees him, and nobody is allowed on the top floor. You need a special keycard for the elevator."

"How many people work up there?" Isaac says.

"I couldn't tell you," is the answer.

"And a locked top floor is what made you leave?" Stiles says skeptically, glancing over at Lydia with a sarcastic grimace on his voice.

"No," Timothy replies. "I finally decided to leave the company when I heard them talking."

Stiles jumps on that.

"Who?"

"Board members."

"Saying…?"

"They were saying that they were looking for a girl." In that moment, Lydia is tremendously glad that they had assumed aliases to have this conversation. She slides her hands towards herself on the tabletop, as if keeping them close will make it harder for The Collector to grab them away from her. "They said she was… one of a kind. Powerful. Essential. At first I assumed she had a lot of money, and that maybe the company was in trouble and they needed it, but the way they were talking, it was like…" He trails off. "They weren't specific because they were at a small table in the cafeteria. I don't think they noticed me sitting behind them; I was alone, in the corner."

"Did they say what they wanted from the girl?" asks Isaac emotionlessly.

"Well," Timothy says, his cheeks reddening. "There's where I come in."

"You?" Stiles echoes, eyes sliding up and down Timothy's small body, as if wondering what sort of harm this man could do to himself or to any of the people he loves.

"Me." The firm reply in Timothy's voice, the way it doesn't waiver for the first time, makes Lydia's skin crawl, her gut telling her that his confidence is only going to be bad for them. When she glances over at Stiles, she sees the same thing in his eyes.

"And what part of the company did you work in?" inquires Lydia.

Timothy's eyes dance nervously between the three of them before he answers.

"The research division," he says. "We're a pharmaceutical company, so it's normal to work with chemicals. But a few years back, I was asked to produce something that would be able to affect a group of people with a specific blood anomaly. They said that it was going to be a cure— introduce a weak version of the strain into people's blood, and then their immune system would build up to it so that it didn't harm them in a less controlled manner."

"What was the group of people?" Stiles asks, frowning.

"I don't know. I'd never seen or worked with anything like their blood… it was incredible. At first I was confused, then blown-away… how could blood have properties like this? Pieces in their chemical makeup that I didn't know about? Sometimes I think…" He trails off. "It doesn't matter what I think."

"Yes it does," Lydia urges on. "Please, Timothy."

He breathes out a long, shuddering breath.

"They… they kept asking me to make it stronger. Said the cure wasn't working effectively enough, so it needed to be stronger. And then they had me switch it from a shot to a spray, like the flu spray, you know? They wanted something that could be _inhaled_. And they had me build and build and build until—"

"Until it became lethal," says Stiles grimly.

"Did you succeed?" Isaac ask, tense. His hands are curled into balls on the table; he looks like he wants to run and hide— and Lydia knows that Isaac, out of everyone she knows, has the strongest fight or flight instincts. He knows what he used to lack.

"I'm good at my job," says Timothy. "So… yes."

Isaac collapses heavily back against his chair, horrorstruck for just a moment.

"Yes," Stiles mutters. One of his hands slides off the table and errs towards the waistband of his jeans, where Lydia knows he has a gun hidden. She twists his fingers around hers before he can touch it, and Stiles looks at her like he is seeing her for the first time— like he had forgotten that she was there.

"Whoever these people are," Timothy is saying, looking guiltily between the three of them. "I think they want them dead."

* * *

The mood in the conference room is far heavier than it had been before. Looking down at the rows and rows of faces, Lydia cannot seem to make out a single emotion. The Argents are well-trained, especially when there are strangers in their midst. Sometimes they remind Lydia of who she used to strive to be, when she was younger, but then she thinks about the way fifteen-year-old Lydia might have responded to half of the shit the Argents have seen, and suddenly she can feel oceans of distance between herself and these people.

They are robotic to the point of emptiness— something that Lydia, in these last few years, has become all too familiar with. But now, sitting right next to her at this table, is a reason to not be empty anymore. He's just as blank as the Argents, watching Isaac stand at the head of the table and deliver information to them in a manner that is clear and concise. If Lydia didn't know Stiles better, she wouldn't know what he is feeling, but one peek at his eyes clues her in to the determination that is settled there. He's going to fix this whether or not the Argents help.

"Our informant has told us that he is almost certain that his biochemical weapon will work," Isaac is saying, speaking directly to Helena. She's at the head of the table, observing him carefully as he delivers the information.

"What percentage is that, exactly?" asks one of the Argents.

"He said eighty-nine, when I asked."

"If he didn't have any supernaturals to test on, how did he get those figures?" Chris asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"He did," Isaac says. "He didn't do the testing himself, though— he would give the formula to a higher-up, who would test them."

"Why didn't he have access to the testing?" another Argent questions. "He never simply walked into the lab?"

"It was on the top floor of the Valetudine building," answers Isaac. "Nobody was allowed up there unless they had a special keycard. He didn't have access."

"What kinds of supernaturals did they test on?"

"I would assume a variety, although my informant didn't have access to that information, so neither do I."

A rough female voice rings out, loud and harsh from where she sits down the table.

"What are the _human_ dangers of this weapon?"

Isaac's eyes meet Stiles' as his head snaps up. As Lydia watches, a silent conversation passes between the two of them before Stiles looks down the table at the woman, eyes becoming stony. She has long, dark hair, and her body is bulky— strong. Argent women may be raised to be leaders, but Lydia has no doubt that this woman is a warrior. And, at this moment, she looks ready to fight.

When Stiles' eyes slide back to Isaac, he gives a small, defeated nod, and settles back deeper in his chair.

"At the moment, it appears to the developers of the chemical that the weapon will have little to no lasting effects on people without supernatural elements in their chemical makeup."

Multiple people at the table relax. Chris, Lydia notices, does not.

"It's not lethal to humans?" one Argent clarifies.

Isaac shakes his head reluctantly.

"No."

A buzzing murmur begins to drift through the room. Argents turn to each other, discussing in low voices. Isaac looks behind himself to where Chris has been standing for the entire presentation, his hands joined behind him, his eyes steely on his protégé.

"May I remind you," Chris says, speaking over the din, "that we as a family have no longer made it our mission to destroy supernaturals? We destroy _chaos_. Not people."

"But wouldn't the world be far less chaotic without supernaturals within it? Maybe we should be working with—"

"That's _quite_ enough," Helena says, rising from her seat in order to glare at the man who had spoken. Several family members shift uncomfortably in their seats as small groups of mumbling begin to crop up. Lydia's gaze darts around the table, trying to survey their reactions. It's startling to not be able to see who at the table is on which side, but when she swings around to glance at Chris, the kindness in his eyes sets her at ease. With renewed confidence, she faces the room again, a steady expression on her face.

With an eagle eye, she looks around at all of the other family members, her hands pressed firmly on the table. "I've made my decision." Her eyes settle on Stiles. Lydia feels him tense next to her, and suddenly the pit in her stomach sinks deeper in response. "First and foremost, you will work with Christopher and Mr. Lahey the _entire_ time."

Stiles nods speedily.

"Okay. Yeah, okay. Anything."

"You may make use of any weapons you need below level six. Any and all tech equipment will be available to you. All budgetary questions must first be run by Christopher, and then by Laurence. Your strategy team will consist of Christopher, Mr. Lahey, Raoul, Orla, Amelia, Henry, and Felicity. Any Argent who wishes to aid in your endeavor may, but no one will be required to walk into the trenches with you. Is all of that clear?"

"Yes," Stiles says quickly. "Perfectly clear. Crystal clear. Clearer than a nostril after a—"

"Thank you," Lydia says, cutting him off. Helena scrutinizes both of them for a few moments that feel incredibly lengthy, then nods simply, gathering her notes and clipping them together.

"Dismissed," she says, turning around and exiting the room.

Lydia faces Stiles, Chris, and Isaac as the room begins to clear out, watching all of them looking at each other. She sees relief, dread, hope, and trepidation in the faces she knows so well, which is exactly why she knows she has to be the one to ask it.

"So," Lydia says, looking between the three of them. "What next?"

* * *

_Lydia Martin [2:32]: Hello._

_Scott McCall [2:32]: Lydia, hi!_

_Lydia Martin [2:32]: I know you were just trying to keep me safe._

_Scott McCall [2:33]: I really love you. And I think he can protect you better than I can right now._

_Scott McCall [2:35]: Are you coming home soon?_

_Lydia Martin [2:40]: Yes. But we're stuck here for now. We're making a plan to protect all of you. We paired up with the Argents, we found out there's a weapon and we're going to try to neutralize it. I'll send you details tomorrow._

_Scott McCall [2:42]: Okay. Thank you._

_Lydia Martin [2:42]: Love you too, McCall._

* * *

It's a budget day for the Argents, which normally meant that Lydia and Stiles were confined to other parts of the mansion while everyone gathered together in the courtroom. Luckily, Isaac almost never attends meetings like those, and Lydia bullies him into bringing them back to Paris with relative ease.

They'd taken a train in from Chantilly, popping into one of the creperies in the rue du Montparnasse before they had headed to the Musée d'Orsay. Lydia had never actually pictured a version of her life in which she would be standing in line for an impressionist art museum with Isaac and Stiles, both of whom are wearing Mets caps (Isaac had put one on just to annoy Stiles; this had worked tremendously well) but here they are, standing in an enormous crowd of tourists, toasting in the bright light of the sun. Isaac is contentedly observing all of the people, and Lydia's heart pangs as she sees his eyes linger on the families. But Stiles simply tilts his chin towards the sky, turning his back towards the sun. She can't see his eyes under his sunglasses, but the set of his mouth is thin and tight, making Lydia want to inch towards him.

She doesn't. Instead, she readjusts her sunglasses and tugs down the large, floppy brimmed hat that she's wearing to cover herself as much as possible. The Argents have passes to every museum in Paris, which Lydia isn't sure is a _spy_ thing or simply a tourist thing, but nevertheless, she keeps them tucked safely in her large handbag, shifting against the other items from the Argent closet.

The Musée d'Orsay does security checks, but one of Isaac's stipulations for leaving the premises was that they had to bring weapons along. Lydia's purse carries enough lethal and non-lethal weapons to bring down a small army, regardless of the fact that two of the people who are going to be using them are supernatural creatures. There's a fake wallet with a hidden compartment for knives, lipsticks with needles laced with poison, perfume with sleeping chemicals, and even a mase bottle that can permanently blind someone.

With that in mind, she's almost shocked when her purse passes through security and the three of them are allowed to progress deeper into the large, bright, open museum. Lydia slips off her sunglasses and tucks them into the bag, eyes devouring the atrium with its grand statues and sculptures.

"See that?" she says, pointing towards the large half-oval of a window at the opposite end of the atrium. "And that?" Lydia gestures towards the ceiling. "That's how you can tell that it's a renovated train station. It was built in the 19th century and it first opened as an art museum in 1986, and now it's the largest collection of imp—"

"Ooookay Encyclop-Lydia Brown," Stiles says, putting his hand on the small of her back to guide her deeper into the museum. "What do you want to see first?"

"Monet," she says instantly walking ahead of the two boys before she stops and backtracks. "No, wait, Renoir. _No_ , we have to start with Van Gogh." Lydia pauses and turns around to face the two of them, frowning deeply. Upon seeing the twin looks of amusement on Stiles' and Isaac's faces, she narrows her eyes at them, crossing her arms over her chest. " _What_?"

Stiles glances over at Isaac, trying not to laugh.

"Why don't we just… start with the top floor and move downwards?"

Lydia hesitates, then shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder before she turns around and begins moving towards the first room.

The next several hours occur exactly as she would expect them to. Isaac speaks of impressionist art techniques using a French accent at the exact moments that make him seem the most pretentious. Stiles gets antsy after thirteen seconds in each room and starts counting security cameras instead, waving to the guards who might be viewing the tape. While Isaac makes keen and unsurprisingly pompous observations, Stiles sneaks up behind him, strokes the shadow of scruff on his chin, and makes up fake art words to make Lydia smile.

As they climb down the beautiful white staircases, moving through the museum, Lydia can physically see the change in Stiles' gait. Moving from room to room, he steps with less heaviness, less of a clomp. His shoulders are hunched over slightly, hands fidgeting as he stands behind Lydia and looks between her and the paintings. By the time they get to the Degas room, their fingers are entwined, and Lydia isn't quite sure when that had happened.

"That one's you," Stiles says decisively, pointing a finger towards a random dancer in _The Ballet Class._

Lydia wrinkles her nose.

"Absolutely not. That pastel blue ribbon is _tacky_ ," she teases. "I'm the one up front with the flower in her hair, obviously."

"Oh, obviously," shoots back Stiles, grinning. "Hey, when you were a little kid, did you wear shit like that to ballet class?"

"No," Lydia says, tugging him by the hand and pulling him over to the next Degas. "We wore pink and black leotards."

"Did you have one of those puffy pink tutu things?" inquires Stiles, looking very serious.

"Of course not," Lydia lies, then, at his snort of laughter, decides that she has had _quite_ enough of Degas.

She tugs him through the next few rooms, unable to keep the smile off of her lips. Despite the heaviness of why they are in France in the first place, there's something surreal about being here with him. They are strolling through a museum in a tornado of normalcy that makes her heart ache with satisfaction, and Lydia _knows_ that this is going to hurt eventually, she does, but the violence of how much she has always loved him makes it difficult for her to care.

It's easy to forget the fact that they're on a timer until suddenly they are standing in front of a painting and Stiles' hand goes limp in hers, sliding out of Lydia's grip with ease. She looks to the side and is startled at who she sees— a furious, closed-down expression and shoulders that seem braced against the entire world.

"What?" she asks urgently. "What's wrong?"

Stiles doesn't answer at first. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the painting, and suddenly, Lydia sees it. A small girl lies in bed while Death sits on the other end, beaconing her towards him. Icy dread fills her veins, and she tries to step closer to him again, to grab his hand back and show him that he'd been _here_ , he'd been right here with her. Stiles pulls away roughly.

" _La jeune fille et la Mort_ ," he reads, fucking up the pronunciation in a way that would normally amuse her. "What does it mean?"

Lydia hesitates.

"Stiles—"

"What does it mean, Lydia?"

She looks at her shoes.

"The Maiden and Death."

Stiles blows out a long breath, eyes fixed on the painting.

"Beauty and the Beast," he says humorlessly. "I guess that's what we've always been, huh."

"No," Lydia says, cutting over him, but Stiles keeps talking.

"She's… she's fucking terrified and she can't move, he's just… he's _taking_ her. He's killing her and she wasn't ready or prepared; she hadn't done anything to deserve it. He's just fucking taking her."

"You're looking at it _wrong_ ," Lydia says sharply. "Look at her face, Stiles. Does she look scared to you?"

"Yeah."

"You're seeing what you want to see." It's impossible for Lydia to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "Stokes drew her leaning towards him, not away from him. Do you see how her expression isn't too tense? It's curious. She's observing him."

"Maybe she's shocked because Death is literally hanging out on her bed with her," Stiles replies humorlessly.

"But it's in a bedroom," Lydia points out. "It's shaped like a keyhole, like a peek into someone's life that we aren't supposed to be seeing. It's intimate."

"It's _helpless_."

"His hand is reaching towards her and he's forceful but not harsh. He's gentle, Stiles. Look, his wing is curving around her, like he's embracing her. There's a reason for that."

"Probably because he knows that being the reason someone dies is…" Stiles trails off, unable to complete his sentence.

"No," Lydia argues. "Because I don't think he's there to kill her."

"Oh, you don't?" replies Stiles skeptically.

"She's got the white nightgown— innocence. But her blankets are bright, almost electric red. And red is… passion, desire, emotion. Red is loud, unlike white. So I think he's there to steal her innocence. Which had to happen anyways. Everybody loses their innocence at some point. It's what makes us stronger as adults. It's education, it's necessity… it's just life."

"Our life," Stiles mutters under his breath. Lydia resists the urge to punch him.

"Stiles. That's _not_ us."

"Oh yeah?" He turns to her, looking her full in the eye, lips curving up into the cruel smile that tells Lydia he's found his trump card. "It's not us?"

"No. It's not."

"Then why are there flowers on the nightstand?"

 

 

 

He keeps Isaac between the two of them on the entire train ride home. The confusion about the suddenly shift in attitude is evident on Isaac's face for about ninety seconds before he shrugs it off, pulls out his phone, and starts taking a buzzfeed quiz called "What Type of Hat Are You?" The three of them are silent as they sneak back into the mansion, hoping that they came back before the meeting got out.

They do not have any such luck.

When they first see Chris standing in the front hallway, his hands folded in front of himself, his face grave, Lydia is certain that they are about to get berated for leaving the mansion without permission. She hasn't been grounded in years, though she supposes that if anybody in her life deserves to ground her, it's probably Chris Argent. But then the grim set of his mouth makes her stomach pitch, and Lydia stops walking as she searches his face.

"What happened?" Isaac asks, voicing Lydia's thoughts.

"Japan. A group of more than thirty kitsunes were found dead."

The answer is delivered in a calm, consistent tone, but Lydia still can feel her heart breaking as Kira's smile flickers through her mind like lightning.

"How do we know—?" Isaac begins to ask, but Chris shakes his head, removing a picture from behind his back.

"The bodies were all mangled," he says. "They had the same thing carved into their right arms after they were killed."

Isaac wordlessly takes the picture from Chris, and Lydia stares hard at the word carved into the young man's arm. Under the dark, caked blood, Lydia can barely make out the word 'バンシー' etched into his skin.

"What does it mean?" asks Stiles, voice shaking with barely contained anger.

And Lydia wouldn't have had to be able to read Japanese in order to know the answer to that.

Stiles had thought he was death, but he had been wrong. Lydia had almost forgotten what she had known since she was sixteen. _She_ is death. She is Thanatos, she is Hades, she is the _devil_.

"It means banshee," she says quietly. "It means we're running out of time."

* * *

"You need a break, Lydia."

Stiles' firm voice cuts through Lydia's mental concentration, shaking her out of the moment as she swings her fist around towards Stiles' face. In one swift moment, he blocks her maneuver, then shifts so that her hand is caught between both of his.

"Let me go," she says through gritted teeth, but Stiles simply continues to stare at her, his voice worried.

"Lydia," he says warningly. "C'mon. You're exhausted."

"A state that I am _extremely_ familiar with given how much we were in a situation like this in high school. Now let. Go."

Stiles squeezes her fist gently once before letting go, taking a step back.

"Well, I'm not going to practice with you anymore," he announces, heading over to the corner of room and picking his shirt up so that he can tug it back over his head. "You need to go to sleep."

Luckily, Lydia knows exactly how to play him in a moment like this.

"Fine," she says, shrugging casually. "I'll just go ask Isaac."

Stiles freezes. Pauses. Then growls and reaches behind his neck to yank the shirt off before shoving it to the floor.

"Okay. But no banshee powers, got it? I don't need you unconscious right now." Something in his expression changes. "Wait, actually—"

"Shove it, Stilinski," Lydia commands, swinging her leg around so that he has to duck to miss the arch of it.

The basement is full of practice rooms for different types of fighting; this particular one has swords tucked into the corner, but Stiles and Lydia have been using it for hand-to-hand most days. In the reflection of the long mirrors that line the walls on three sides, Lydia can see the parts of her form that need work before she goes back into the field. There are things that she used to know how to do six ago. They are things she had moronically and naively lost because she had refused to have anything to do with the supernatural.

Silly, hopeful girl, to think that the she could ever leave something like loss behind in that small, sleepy town.

"You're ducking too late," Stiles says, panting as he swings at her. "I'm pretty sure that if I surprised you with a left hook, you wouldn't make it in time."

"Maybe it's because I know you're not really going to hit me," reasons Lydia, blocking his arm before using all of her strength to twist it behind him, forcing him to the floor. She bends down, curving over his body so that the hair gathered in her ponytail slides over her shoulder and tickles his sweaty skin. "Just like you let me do that," whispers Lydia in his ear.

He turns to look at her, his eyes meeting hers as he stares over his shoulder, and for a moment, Lydia can read everything on his face.

"Not bad. Not bad at all."

The voice that speaks is clipped and British, and Lydia can't understand how Helena had snuck into their practice room without either of them noticing. The two of them spring apart like they've been caught doing something obscene as opposed to preparing for a battle that Helena is very much aware of. Self-consciously, Lydia adjusts her sports-bra, suddenly feeling terribly under-dressed considering the fact that Helena is fully clothed.

"Um, thanks?" replies Stiles, shuffling a little awkwardly on the floor.

"Ms. Martin," Helena says, directing her intrigued gaze towards Lydia. "You learned hand-to-hand from a man."

It isn't a question. Lydia confirms anyways.

"I did."

"There are certain… _advantages,_ I suppose, that women can have over men that male teachers aren't necessarily aware of. Our bodies aren't the same, so neither does our skillset have to be."

"I understand." Her voice is quiet with respect. Every single person in this enormous mansion has to defer to this woman before they do anything— she's the type of formidable woman that makes Lydia want to work harder, be better.

"Let me teach you."

The words are abrupt and firm, and when Lydia meets Helena's gaze in surprise, she finds that the woman's violet eyes seem to dance with excitement.

"Alright," Lydia says, glancing over at Stiles and lifting one shoulder to let him know that she's okay with it. "You can go upstairs," she says softly. "You need to shower."

He nods resolutely, grabbing his shirt and his water bottle before leaving the room, letting the door close firmly behind him.

Lydia turns to look nervously at Helena.

"So… what now?"

Helena smiles, and for the first time, it looks gentle.

"Are you willing to spar with me?"

Without another word, Lydia nods, getting into the proper stance to begin a fight. Helena moves into place as well, and Lydia lets her make the first move, immediately blocking it. She tries to use less strength than she would normally employ, but when Helena uses Lydia's block to tilt her arm in the opposite direction, creating a sharp pain in her arm, it suddenly occurs to Lydia that her opponent might be stronger than she is.

" _Fuck_ ," swears Lydia, snatching her arm away and cradling it.

"Rule number one," Helena says somberly. "You cannot play fair because _this_ is not fair. Take them by surprise. Act outside the bounds of the rules. You're an intelligent woman, Ms. Martin. Use that. _Create._ "

She raises her hands into sparring position once more, nodding at Lydia to tell her to make the first move. They spar for several moments until Helena ducks under her arm and captures her around the neck from behind. She lets go quickly, holding on just long enough for Lydia to realize what had happened.

"Rule number two," says Lydia drily, turning around to ace her opponent. "Watch your back?"

"Rule number two," corrects Helena. "They are stronger than we are. They are taller than we are. And they can hurt us in ways that we cannot hurt them. You can't forget that— not ever."

Her tone of voice makes Lydia realize that maybe Helena had learned this lesson the hard way, and suddenly the intelligent elderly woman with the all-black clothes and neat chignon seems so much sadder than Lydia had ever perceived her to be.

She wonders if, in some ways, they have the same scars.

"Are you the first Argent matriarch?"

Helena tilts her head to the side, surveying her just before she swings at her.

"I'm the first one without a husband."

"You were never married?"

"I was," concedes Helena. "But I was a widow by the time I became the head of the family."

"So it was different in the past," Lydia confirms.

"Argents believe, more strongly than anything, that power comes with organization, with _sense_. For generations, we've arranged our marriages based on intelligence and skill." She swings her leg around with an enormous amount of strength. Lydia dodges at the last moment. "Theoretically, the two most powerful people would end up together and rise to the head of the family. The husband would be the warrior, the wife the leader, and they would work together in a partnership."

" _All_ of your marriages are arranged?"

It's incredibly difficult to imagine someone as passionate as Allison in an arranged marriage, so Lydia chooses disconnect herself from her best friend at the moment, instead soaking up the history that Helena is offering her.

"We don't specifically marry within our family tree… it's not as though we were marrying our cousins." Lydia takes the moment of humor to swipe at the older woman, a jab that she easily dodges. "There's the original Argent bloodline, and then there's other families who have partnered with us and worked with us for generations. Sometimes they send their children to us and we train them here in the mansion. Then those children marry Argent children."

"You were one of those children," Lydia guesses, panting.

"I was," replies Helena wistfully, halting for a moment. "I came here when I was ten-years-old. Before I was an Argent, I was Helena Talbot of Lambton."

Now that she's getting answers, Lydia suddenly can't stop asking questions.

"How long were you married? Was your spouse ever the leader?"

"Four years." Lydia can't read her expression, and she doesn't try to. She cannot fathom the kind of bravery that comes with telling a story such as this one. She cannot imagine ever trusting someone this much, so she leaves Helena that one piece of privacy and doesn't look away from her eyes. "We marry when we're twenty-five. By the time I was twenty-nine, I was a widow."

"And you never remarried?"

"I was never assigned a new spouse."

She says it like that was that.

"But you still became…" Lydia trails off, at a loss for words. She chooses not to find them. Instead, she whispers the question that plagues her most about the idea of an existence such as this one. "Weren't you lonely?"

"Ms. Martin, I have my JD. At my best, I could outfight most of the young men and women whose training I helped facilitate. And I can outwit them as well, to this day." She smiles wryly, voice getting kind. "Perhaps if I had felt for someone the type of emotion that would make me understand what it truly feels like to be lonely, I might be. But I never did. And I think there's a point in a woman's life when she becomes certain. If it doesn't settle in naturally, it does simply because she chooses to have certainty. This, Ms. Martin, is where I am supposed to be. I'm here to keep other people smart, sane, and _alive_." She puts her hands up, raising one eyebrow pointedly at Lydia. "Now. Ready for rule number three?"

* * *

There had been a point in Lydia's life when she was comfortable with having all eyes on her. That had been when she was still a child who hid behind sticky lipgloss and enormous curls that bounced with her steps. She thinks that maybe she had been okay with people seeing her because they were looking at her mask, not at Lydia specifically, but it's different now.

Now, as she stands in front of the Argents, all she wants to do is revert and hide. It's a far cry from the confidence with which she has been walking the hallways ever since her discussion with Helena.

Lydia knows, has always known, that she has it within her to be just as powerful as Helena is.

Except they're just sitting in rows at the long conference table, _staring_ at her with grave expressions on their faces. Although a vast majority of them are Argents with whom Lydia has spent time these past several days, she still feels like she doesn't know them. Even her co-workers from the lab on the second floor are simply staring at her with blank looks, as though she's not presenting information that the group of them had figured out together.

But Lydia supposes that's not surprising. After all, she's the one who had done most of the digging. She's the one who had been crawling back into bed next to a restlessly sleeping Stiles at 4am, kissing him on the cheek to get him to settle down. Lydia is the one who has been slugging through pages and pages of research, trying to figure out how the chemical works and whether or not they would be able to destroy it.

"Although we weren't able to access the original sample of the biochemical weapon, our source was able to give us the notes from his research and we were successful in recreating it."

A similar statement is written on the screen behind her— Lydia'd had somebody in the graphics department make a powerpoint for her.

"Did you test it on anyone?" one of the Argents asks.

"Where the fuck would she have gotten a supernatural creature who would volunteer to inhale a serum that would almost certainly kill him?" Stiles interjects. "C'mon."

"I did, however, review the effects that the chemical might have on human lives," Lydia says, holding up her clicker and switching the slide. "And I was able to confirm that the chemicals are mostly non-lethal when interacting with human blood, enough to test it, actually. We did get some volunteers there. You've got testimonies from them in the folders in front of you."

Lydia gestures towards the table, where a folder is placed in front of each Argent.

"What exactly were you looking for?" a woman asks, sifting through the pages with a concentrated look on her face.

"I wanted to find out what kind of supernatural creature the biochemical weapon most effectively targets," says Lydia. "And judging from the very limited blood samples I had— first from myself, then from Mr. Lahey, then from some other blood I had access to from your family stores— I was able to find that the serum is most deadly to shapeshifters such as Mr. Lahey." Lydia nods towards Isaac. "I found that, without physical evidence of a power that changes my body, the serum wouldn't interact with my blood in a way that would indicate I'm a supernatural. Instead, its behaviors indicated that I'm a human." She changes the slide, pointing with her laser at data from the mermaid experiments. "This line of experimentation indicated that creatures without the physical change gene would fall ill because of the interaction of the chemicals with their body, but they wouldn't necessarily die unless they are too physically weak to withstand the side effects."

"So you won't be affected," Chris clarifies. "This weapon isn't meant just to get you."

"No, it's targeting supernatural creatures on the whole," Isaac cuts in.

"Exactly," says Lydia. "It's… senseless."

"Collateral damage." When she looks over at Stiles, his eyes seem far away.

"That type of senselessness is exactly what we cannot afford," Helena states, rising. "Christopher, I'm adding ten more people to your task force. We need to move on this."

The other Argents follow her out of the room. Lydia watches them, a bit stunned at how quickly and efficiently things can move with a group as large as this. She turns to Stiles as he approaches her, unable to help pouting a little bit.

"I had six more slides."

Stiles smirks.

"You were dying up there," he says. "Although, seriously, can you talk medical to me some more? That was…" He hesitates. "Hot."

Lydia lifts an eyebrow.

"Hot enough to lift the sex ban?"

"Ha," Stiles says, voice a little weak, in a way that makes Lydia tilt her head further to the side and stare at him imploringly. "I… um… I have to go. I'm filling in for one of the sixth grade teachers."

Lydia pauses, replaying the words in her head.

"You're… what?"

"I'm teaching little kids how to throw a punch," he says like it's obvious. She throws him a confused look. "What do you think goes down in the kiddie training rooms?"

"Math?"

"Absolutely not," replies Stiles, grinning as he makes finger guns at her and heads towards the doorway to the conference room. Lydia stays rooted in the same spot, staring at the door, and is still staring at it when Stiles pokes his head around again. "Okay," he says, cheeks a little flushed. "Here's the thing. Do you want to go on a date with me?"

She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. Shakes her head.

"I—?"

"The thing is, you looked really hot up there talkin' all science-y, and I… I realized that we've never really had something that wasn't intense, y'know? I just… I wanna go to, like, an obnoxiously fancy restaurant with you and stare at you across a table and listen to you talk while we eat food that is way too expensive for the tiny portions we're getting." He lurches to a stop long enough to shrug. "I dunno. I just wanna spend time with you."

And despite herself, Lydia wants that too. She smiles, a little shyly despite the fact that he is the person in the world who knows her best, and nods at him.

"Okay," she says, voice a little disbelieving. "Okay. I'll go on a date with you."

His small sigh of relief does not escape her notice.

"Oh. Good."

They stare at each other across the room, neither moving closer. Lydia feels something akin to excitement fluttering to life in her stomach, and despite her best efforts, she can't quite get herself to back down.

"Stiles," she says. "Your class."

"Right!" he agrees, nodding with too much emphasis. "Right. I'll see you later. Eight o'clock? I'll figure out how to sneak out. Just… show up." He hesitates, then adds, "Please."

With another grin in her direction and an awkward wave that has no place in this particular interaction, Stiles turns around and exits the conference room. The smile lingers on Lydia' lips as she glances down at the portfolio on the table in front of her, filled with notes and equations and relevant atomic numbers and sketches of the aortic valve.

It's so much easier when it's all on paper instead of beating insistently against her chest.

* * *

"Oh I am going to _kill_ Isaac," Stiles growls under his breath. The waiter, walking away from their table with a quick gait, doesn't pause at that. Lydia wonders if perhaps he hears that a lot— after all, this is one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris, and the lack of prices on the menu is bound to leave some of the customers swearing. "I asked him to recommend a nice place to take _you_ on a date, not the motherfucking queen of England."

"That's exactly right," Lydia says in a placating voice, taking a sip of her wine. "You're not taking Elizabeth out until next week."

Stiles glares at her as he instinctively tries to loosen his tie.

"I feel like I'm at a funeral," he mutters under his breath. "If funerals gave you as much anxiety as waiters staring at you while you try to pick out a wine."

"Next time just dart your tongue out and lick your glass like a cat," instructs Lydia, eyes sweeping across the menu. "No need to pretend to 'sniff the bouquet.'"

"I de _cant_ believe you didn't like that," Stiles says seriously, snorting as soon as Lydia's gaze drifts from the menu to him, offering one distain-filled look before glancing back down. "Sorry. I had to."

Lydia considers this, lips turning down for just a moment.

"Do you ever _have_ to make a joke that idiotic?"

"That was a highly nuanced and intellectual piece of humor, Ms. Martin," Stiles says self-importantly. "How lost would you have been if you didn't understand the _multiple_ levels of wordplay involved with—?"

"Okay," she replies, reaching across the table to pat his hand condescendingly. "Drink your wine."

She looks back down at the menu, reviewing her options while she waits for the comeback that never comes. When Lydia glances upwards at Stiles, throwing him a confused look, she finds his eyes already trained on her. They're soft and amber in the flickering of the candlelight, moving with the unsteady flame.

"You look really beautiful," says Stiles, answering her unasked question. His voice is tender, making her want to drop his gaze, but Lydia keeps her eyes locked on his as they melt right into hers. They peer at each other across the table until suddenly a small laugh wiggles its way up Lydia's chest, glancing away as she tucks a wispy strand of hair behind her ear.

"I thought you wanted something not intense?"

"When we were sixteen I literally threw my body over yours to stop birds from pecking you. I told you I loved you before we had ever been on a date. You opened a rift in the universe by remembering that you kissed me once. That ship has _sailed_."

He's teasing her, but the light in his eyes is what makes her prop her elbow on the table and tilt her head at him.

"So, Monsieur… what do you do?"

Stiles shrugs mockingly.

"Oh, you know. I dabble."

"You do, do you?"

"I'm between things right now."

"Between a rock and a hard place, perhaps?"

"Ugh, oh my god, _now_ who's making bad jokes?"

Lydia smiles smugly as she takes a sip of wine.

"That was a highly nuanced and intellectual piece of humor, Mr. Stilinski!" she imitates, making him burst into laughter that is too loud for the fancy restaurant that they are seated in. _Le Meurice_ is on the bottom floor of a hotel, and is decorated with stunningly opulent chandeliers and a beautifully painted ceiling. It seems stuffy and uptight, but Stiles, as always, is oblivious to that. More specifically, he seems to be oblivious to anything but her.

"Or should I be calling you Ms. Aldric?" he asks, one corner of his mouth ticking upwards.

"Isaac really outdid himself with those names."

"I know. His sounded like such a douchey French name. It was perfect for him."

"I'm sure he'd say the same of yours," comments Lydia lightly.

"What? Why?"

"Let's just say, Isaac picked the names very carefully."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No, but anybody with a basic understanding of the etymological roots of French names would know that."

"So… everyone but me?"

"Basically, mhm."

"Explains why Isaac's sounded so dickish," muses Stiles. "What was it, again?"

"Lamoureux," Lydia informs him, patting the fabric of her deep blue dress as it brushes against her knees. She'd raided the costume closet for something and, to be honest, is considering not returning the heels. "It means 'lover' or 'in love.'"

"Did yours have a meaning too?"

Lydia smirks.

"Powerful," she tells him, and she can see his eyes scrunch upwards as he tries not to smile at that.

"And mine?"

Lydia clears her throat as the waiter comes by with their appetizers— some sort of beautifully decorated platter of seafood, and another plate of ornately arranged vegetables. Stiles had let Lydia order, which had probably been for the best, but now means that he's wrinkling his nose at the dishes like they had just insulted his best friend.

"I don't know if you want to know," Lydia says, adding a small " _Merci_!" for the waiter as he walks away from their table.

"I totally do," Stiles says. "Just tell me."

"Malapry. Ill mannered. Rude. Tacky."

His mouth drops open in horror.

"Okay, honestly, _fuck_ Isaac right in the—" (Lydia takes a pointed bite of potato.) "I see what he means."

"Mhm."

"Hey, uh, Lydia?" With deep regret, she looks up from the piece of squash that she is about to spear into and raises her eyebrows at him. "I've been meaning to ask… well… um."

"Stiles," she says warningly.

"Okay, I wanted to ask… what did you talk about with Helena? Was everything okay after I left you? Did she—?"

"It was fine," she reassures him. "We just talked about her past a little bit. She's actually a fascinating woman."

"Learn anything?" he jokes, but Lydia's answer is serious.

"I did." Her answer is too perfunctory; Stiles simply sits there, waiting for her to go on. "Helena… she's happy with everything she has. She's fulfilled. She's been alone since she was a little older than us, but… she doesn't need anybody. And I've spent so much time grappling with whether or not I need another person to be happy."

"You don't," Stiles says firmly, like he knows.

Lydia shakes her head.

"Stiles, I… I know what it feels like to be alone. I've done that. I _hated_ it. And I know what it was like for my mom, when my father left, and I know how it felt when everyone was lying to me, and I know that Scott never would have gotten through the grief of losing Allison without his mom, without you, without Kira— I've spent my whole life watching people not be by themselves while I always felt like I was alone in a crowded room. And ever since you left, a part of me has been going back and forth between what would be best for me. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to fall in love again, or fall in love with my work, or find someone who was _just_ enough."

"D' you really think that would work?" He seems genuinely curious and a little afraid of the answer.

"We both know that I wouldn't have married Carter," Lydia says, looking away like she's divulging a shameful secret. "I think… I think I figured out that… as much as I _want_ the life that Helena has, where she doesn't need another person, now that I know what it's like to have something like… _this_? I think I would miss it too much. I think I would wake up looking for it sometimes." Lydia shakes her head, glancing out the window. "And I don't think it makes me weak, to want that. I think it just means that I've been through enough in my life to deserve someone who makes me feel like I'm safe."

Stiles is silent for a long time.

"I fucking hated these past six years," he says eventually. "I hate being alone so much, Lydia."

He stares down at his empty plate and she wonders if he's about to cry. "Hey," Lydia says, voice falsely upbeat. "Try the brussel sprouts. You'll like them, I promise."

And despite the heaviness of the conversation, he still has it in him to bring his eyes up to her and squint at her.

"What in God's name makes you think that I would like any form of brussel sprouts?"

Lydia lays down her fork and crosses her arms.

"You'll like them. Try them."

"Have you met me? Why woul—?"

"Because I said so," Lydia replies firmly. "Try the brussel sprouts."

He digs his fork into one, takes a bite, and then lets his mouth loll open.

"Holy hell," he says around the food.

One point to Stilinski, a million and one for team Martin.

* * *

There's a clock that's always ticking inside of Lydia's stomach, counting off how long it's been since she'd fallen in love with Stiles. Sometimes it would reset when they made up from an argument, all hands and spit and sharing breaths as they panted into each other's mouths. Sometimes it resets when he smiles goofily, or when she has to cover his antsy fingers with hers. Sometimes she pretends that it doesn't exist, their clock.

But it does. She would know if it came out, somehow, because someone would have to physically pull it out of her stomach. Not even Stiles walking away, wrapping the other end of the string around his index finger, had dislodged their clock. It's grown roots inside of her, ones that stretch down to her toes and tug upwards when he kisses her, _lifting_.

Maybe that's why Lydia's felt a camaraderie with the stars since she was sixteen-years-old.

It reset a lot tonight. Seeing Stiles in his suit jacket. _Tick_. Staring at each other across the table. _Tick._ Hearing him make that ridiculous pun that reminded her so much of the old him, for a second it felt like nothing had changed at all. _Tick_. Loosely holding hands as they walked through the streets, wandering towards the light of the Eiffel Tower. _Tick_. Swinging around a lamppost to make him smile, and ending up close enough to kiss him. _Tick_. The way their tongues had slid uncertainly together this time, as if it was genuinely new. _Tick, tick, tick._

She can physically feel it resetting as their footsteps click across the floor, echoing through the large, empty ballroom. Stiles walks with purpose towards the large piano that is tucked in the corner, the glossy black finish gleaming by light of his iPhone flashlight.

"You have to promise not to laugh at me," he warns, settling down at the bench.

"I make no such promise," Lydia says. "Especially because you always hold out on me when it comes to this."

She taps one of the keys on the piano. Stiles grins cockily.

"After I saw what my fingers did to you that first time? I had to use my powers for _good_."

"As opposed to right now, when you're not using them at all."

Stiles hesitates.

"I haven't taken lessons since my mom couldn't drive me to them."

"I know."

"And I was really, really busy most of high school."

"So you had less time to bang out Mayday Parade and All Time Low covers. I understand."

"Okay." Stiles licks his bottom lip. "I'm just gonna… yeah."

She expects to hear some sort of pop song that she vaguely recognizes from their middle school years. Instead, the notes that Stiles weaves through are unfamiliar to her, as much as Lydia tries to place them. She lifts her eyes from his fingers to his face, hoping for a jaunty smile that sparks recognition in her, but instead she gets a facial expression that is so relaxed, it's almost blank. His eyes are closed; clearly he doesn't need to watch the keys.

The song he's playing has so much dissonance in mood, it doesn't always sound like the same song. It evolves from happy to sad; pleasure to pain; soft to the harsh, loud _thump_ of his fingers on the keys and his foot pressing hard against the pedal. She listens to it move and suddenly, with a thickness in her throat, knows exactly what she is hearing.

 _Tick, tick, tick_.

He lingers towards the bottom half of the piano for a long time, then slowly begins inching upwards. She waits with baited breath, hoping for the resolution, for the tangible, discernable _shift_ , but it never comes. Instead, Stiles abruptly opens his eyes and pulls his foot off of the pedal, shrugging as he does so, as if he doesn't think she knows the vitality of what she just heard.

"Where's the end?" she demands softly.

Stiles runs his fingers along the keys, not pressing down.

"I don't know," is his empty response.

He turns his head towards the piano, bending forward to hide his face, and Lydia doesn't want that. She can't have that. She can't watch it. Carefully, she shifts so that she is in front of him, blocking the keys from Stiles' sight. Instead of tilting towards the piano, he rests his head against her stomach as though he is bowing to her.

Given what he just played her, it's fitting that he doesn't move.

"Did you play a lot? These past few years?"

One hand catches onto her waist and runs slowly down her body, feeling the curves under the navy blue fabric of her dress.

"I missed you," he replies. "Missing you was just… this thing I couldn't shake. Old habits die hard, right?"

"Like the flowers," whispers Lydia.

"Like the flowers," Stiles agrees hollowly.

She tilts his head up towards her, bringing his eyes to meet her, her thumbs ghosting over his cheeks. The hope that flickers across his eyes is enough to wrench Lydia wide open. Stiles stands up slowly, suddenly towering over her, but it still feels like he's bowing.

"I _hate_ flowers."

When his lips meet hers, he is so pliant, so giving, that Lydia finds herself shaking as her hands move his down to her hips again. Sensing what she wants, Stiles lifts her onto the piano, her feet clunking against the keys as she settles.

The look of confusion on his face when she puts a finger over his lips, stopping him from kissing her again, is priceless. It's worth it. Lydia lies back, wordlessly spreading her legs for him.

"Lydia?" he chokes out. She sits up on her elbows to look at him and finds his eyes wild, his face open. She tilts her head, indicating for him to go on. "Lydia, do… do you _love_ me?"

She watches him.

"When did you start writing that song?"

"Middle school."

"And you never stopped?"

"Not even when I thought I could," he admits openly. She lies back against the piano without another word. "You know this isn't… this isn't what it's gonna be like all the time. We're here, we're not out there, and sometimes it feels like a different world, and I… I can't be this person all the time. It's gonna change again."

"You'll find me," says Lydia, confident. "You've always found me."

There's a long moment of anticipation before she feels hesitant fingers running along her panties, gentle as he tugs the crotch aside to look at her. There's weeks of built up tension, of him not giving himself to her, and isn't it just like Lydia Martin to have to miss what she already had before realizing how much she needs it? She feels him quietly slip the panties off, running his fingers through her, marveling at how wet she is. And then, just as she thinks she can't take it anymore, his breath is on her center and he's hovering closer.

Stiles' mouth finds Lydia on an inhale; as a result, the breath that she exhales following is shaky and loud. She quiets herself purposefully, wanting to listen to the way he breathes against her, the way he always used to. She used to love that about him— the little hungry moan he would release as he began to eat her out.

It doesn't happen this time. Instead, she hears him sigh low in his chest, the whinge a low rumble that she can almost feel if she concentrates hard enough.

He loves her. He still loves her. He's always loved her. She knows that, but sometimes the mantra is something that she needs to repeat. Even now, as he touches her like this, desperate and loving all at the same time, the strength of it hits her so much that it makes her knees go weak.

He loves her. He still loves her. He's always loved her.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

* * *

Stiles is painted gold when Lydia wakes up.

They are in the house of Argent, the house of _silver,_ but the sun that streams in and touches his skin makes him look like one of the statues they had seen in the Musée d'Orsay. His shirt is off— they had come back to their room and fooled around for what had felt like thirty minutes and actually was two hours— but she can see the leg of his plaid pajama bottoms poking out from underneath the covers. For a moment, all she can do is smile at him, her mind naturally wrapping around the ease of waking up in a sunlit room next to him.

None of what they did last night was a first, but it felt like that.

She's woken up in bed next to him countless times, especially in pajamas, but this morning it feels more intimate to watch his slack face as it presses too hard against the pillow. She doesn't know what they are, or what they're doing, but she knows that she can't find it in herself to regret the hand-holding or the date or the way his lips had felt on her thighs last night.

It feels, to Lydia, like this was what was supposed to happen. It feels like they _earned_ it.

Because she found him. Last night, and the night before, and the night before that, she had been able to pull out bits and pieces of Stiles, to hear him in his jokes, to feel them in the warmth of his palm underneath hers. For the first time, it is starting to become _easy_ to reconcile the image of the man in front of her with the scared boy with a buzz-cut who just wanted to love her.

That has always been Stiles' endgame, after all. He just wants to love her.

There's so much she doesn't know about the past six years of his life, but sometimes she can feel it when he looks at her— the weight of loss, responsibility, loneliness, dread, pain. He had broken himself out of the stubborn, gripping love that he had for her, for his father, for Scott. He had done this so that none of them would have to.

It's a strange world to live in, one where Stiles Stilinski chooses to play the hero in the most punishing manner possible. Which is exactly why Lydia needs to stop treating every moment they have like it's a stay of sentence instead of what it really is: concession. She is conceding to him without him even knowing; without him having any awareness that he's cracking through her walls.

That's always been _Lydia's_ endgame, hasn't it? To give him the sledgehammer. To _let_ him.

So this morning, when she slips out of bed with the dust of his touches lingering on her thighs, Lydia allows herself to leave kisses on his shoulders, his back, his head. At the last moment, he turns towards her in sleep, and she can't help herself from pressing a sloppy morning kiss against his lips.

Then she leaves her gold-painted boy lying between the sheets and dresses as quickly as she can. This morning, Lydia has _purpose_.

Isaac's room is only two floors up and a little down the hall. He doesn't have his own plaque, but Lydia finds it anyways— his jacket is placed on the banister outside of the door, still damp from when they'd been caught in the rain when they were horseback riding a few days ago. She knocks resolutely, listening for the telltale mumbling and grumbling that tells Lydia he's staggering his way to the door.

"What?" Isaac says flatly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Also why?"

"Brush your teeth," Lydia says simply. "We're taking a field trip."

Isaac groans but follows orders, padding back into his bedroom and spending a few minutes in the bathroom before he re-emerges, looking far more awake but equally as annoyed.

"What are you up to?" he asks suspiciously, leading Lydia to give him a brief, awkward, too-toothy grin before she whirls around and leaves his room, trusting him to follow her. Seconds later, she hears the door to Isaac's bedroom close and a key turning in the lock.

Good.

They make their way up flights and flights of stairs, climbing until they're breathless and almost at the top, and even though Lydia's only been here once, she feels like the memory of it is now ingrained into her footsteps.

"Almost there," she comments as they turn down yet another winding hallway.

"Lydia," Isaac starts, sounding nervous.

"Just… trust me," she instructs, finally stopping in front of the plaque that reads _Allison M_. "Have you been in here before?" she asks softly. When she turns to Isaac, he is frozen in front of the room, staring at Allison's engraved name like it is something that could burn him. "Isaac?"

His eyes snap up to her, deer-like in their anxiousness. Lydia reaches out her hand to him, to protect him, to let him know that he's not alone. He takes it stiffly, still staring at the plaque.

"I found it my first week," he admits, voice hushed and reverential.

"You never went in?"

Isaac shakes his head.

"Couldn't."

"You don't have to," says Lydia. "But I think you should." He looks between her and the door, uncertain. "You're allowed to miss her."

"It doesn't c—"

"The reason you have the life you have today is because of Allison." Lydia cuts him off unceremoniously, not wanting Isaac to finish the sentence. She doesn't think he means it anyways. "You're here because of her. That's not nothing."

Isaac nods, the motion shaky, and in the end, he is the one who reaches out to touch the doorknob. When he walks into the room, Lydia waits outside a few moments, allowing him to take a breath and look around. By the time she walks in, Isaac is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking around in wonderment.

"It's so…"

"Her?" asks Lydia, voice dry. "I know. It's a little strange."

"Like she never left."

"I like it," admits Lydia as she settles onto the bed next to him. "It makes me think that maybe she knew she had something to come back to."

The two of them sit in silence, eying the way the morning light reflects off of the hand mirror on Allison's bedside table.

"Sometimes I walk around here and I think I see her. But then I turn around and she's gone."

"She would've been incredibly high up in the Argent hierarchy by now," decides Lydia. "Probably giving Helena a run for her money."

"She would've been the person who helped me most," Isaac adds quietly. "The head of the 'Supernatural Liaison department' or something like that. She would have argued for it until her face was blue." He laughs a little bitterly. "Chris had to do it all by himself."

"I wanted you to look at this," Lydia says, getting off the bed and grabbing Allison's diary off of the nightstand before she settles next to Isaac again. "It's her journal from sophomore year."

"I didn't know her then, remember? I was in Derek's pack."

He's confused, even as Lydia opens the diary to the page she had marked.

"She saved your life once," she says. "Did you know that? Gerard and… well, Chris, actually. They were trying to kill you, and Allison didn't even know you but she saved your life."

"Seriously?"

"She shot arrows into the Argent that they sent to kill you."

"It's hard to believe how much this family wanted me dead even _before_ I hogged all the hot water."

"She saw the freezer," Lydia continues. Isaac goes still next to her.

"Oh."

"Actually, she had to lock Scott up in it during his shift, but—" Lydia trails off, stroking her fingers over the page. "She cared what happened to you. She cared that you weren't alone." Quickly, before he can resist, Lydia shoves the book into his hands and gives him a kiss on the cheek. "Read it."

She leaves Isaac alone in Allison's room, heading back downstairs to hopefully take a shower before going for a walk in the garden, maybe studying some of the herbs and trying to compare them to the book she had found in the library.

But Stiles is in the shower when she gets back, and she can see the way his skin is tinged pink from the heat of the water as he runs his hands through his hair, getting the rest of the shampoo out of it. And somehow, inexplicably, all she wants to do is make out with him again.

"Hey," he says, turning around as he notices her. "Good morning?"

His voice is tentative, as if he isn't sure how she's going to react to him after last night. Which Lydia supposes makes sense. After all, they've had an absurd amount of false starts.

"Hi," she says breathily, then bites her lip. "So, um, how long do you think you'll be?"

Stiles frowns.

"Five more minutes, maybe. Why?"

"Nothing," Lydia says hastily, backing towards the door. She stops, changing her mind, and turns around again. "It's just… wanna make out?" She can literally feel her cheeks heating up at just how high school all of this sounds— and the ironic part is that she hadn't been one to take it slow even back then— but almost as soon as she turns around to head back to the bedroom and shame spiral, she hears the sound of the water turning off.

Her very lithe, very wet ex-boyfriend is still chuckling at her phrasing as he tackles her onto the bed and slides unceremoniously to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well _hello_ friends! Here is a shockingly on-time chapter of Rainflower. I am so excited that I was able to get it to you guys-- truly, this chapter made me tear my hair out with all the research I did for it. So, first off, I have to thank my research buddy, Catherine (youaretoosmart on tumblr). She helped me go through all these little pieces of Paris that I could not for the life of me remember, helped me comb through the galleries at the Musee d'Orsay, corrected (read: did for me) all the French in this chapter, and helped me comb through high-priced restaurants that neither of us could ever afford. Girl, I wish I could buy you dinner there but instead I offer you my unconditional love. 
> 
> I also want to thank Maggie, Rachel, and Jade for being incredibly patient with me writing this chapter, being there for me as I worried like crazy about Stiles' characterization, and for weeding through this typo-littered chapter of the fic. And thank YOU GUYS SO MUCH for all of the amazing, amazing comments. I'm sure you all know (from my incessant live-tweeting about how agonizing it can be to write chapters, especially ones that are long enough to be an individual fic) I spend a crap-ton of time on these chapters and you guys being so tremendously giving with your time by writing me a comment? Holy hell, it is such a freaking honor. You have no idea. Thank you for each and every comment. 
> 
> Okay, I'm getting emotional, so I'm gonna stop typing, and I will see you in not after this next chapter, but the one after that!
> 
> The oral scene was a blatant and purposeful reference to Pretty Woman, and if you want to see the painting, [here it is!](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/15/La_Jeune_Fille_et_la_Mort-Marianne_Stokes-IMG_8224.JPG/1280px-La_Jeune_Fille_et_la_Mort-Marianne_Stokes-IMG_8224.JPG)
> 
> Lots of love, and please stay safe in this snowy weather! 
> 
> <3 Rachel


	13. Poppy (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy, or Papaver Somniferum
> 
> Sleep. Consolation for loss. Remembering the fallen. 
> 
> Peace in death.

_ When she rolls her neck for the fourth time, and raises her arms over her head for the fifth, he finally concedes.  _

_ “I’m calling it,” he says, scratching his chin with the cap of the white marker. “Time of death, 2:45 am.” _

_ “No,” Lydia huffs, and, un-pretzeling her legs, she stands on his bed, stretching with a groan. He has to look away, for both of their sanity and safety. “Come on, Stiles. We’re so close to cracking this.” _

_ “You’re literally sleeping with your eyes open.” _

_ “I’m just in need of sustenance, is all,” she says, sashaying to stand beside him. They examine the board in silence. “...And maybe some of your Adderall.”  _

_ He leans over, nudging her shoulder with his own. “Prescription medication must be diagnosed and administered under physician supervision, Lydia Martin. For shame.” _

_ She smiles to herself, eyes darting over his indiscernible scribble and the red strings that bind them together. Lydia picks at her bottom lip with her thumb and pointer finger, momentarily lost in the helter-skelter of motley information. Her hair falls over one shoulder, curls mussed and flattened by his bedsheets. Stiles likes it. It’s imperfect, and gloriously messy. And his bedsheets did that.  _ His _ room. The place where she visits most, whether in body or in mind. _

_ “What we need is a slip up. Evidence. My dad says it’s only a matter of time before they mess up. They always do.” _

_ Lydia sighs, running her hand through her defeated curls. “Nah. I think what we need, now more than ever, is coffee.”  _

 

_ Stiles takes them to a local 24 hour drive through, (All Day Donuts-Guaranteed Fresh!), and he hands her a steaming cup while an illuminated, eight foot dancing donut smiles at them through the windshield of his parked jeep. It’s cutesy, and only slightly ominous with its bulging blue eyes and pink frosting.  _

_ “Thanks,” she whispers, wrapping her polished fingers around the cardboard container. “I needed a break.” _

_ “Since when does your brain ever need a break?” _

_ “While yes, I am brilliant and gorgeous and have a plethora of valuable qualities, I am also mortal. Hand me the sugar?” Stiles complies, reaching into the crinkly paper bag and fishing out the small packets of Sweet’N Low.  _

_ They sit in silence while Lydia sips her coffee, and Stiles stirs his hot chocolate, both staring out at the empty road and the devilish dancing donut. _

_ “We’ll get it, you know,” she speaks into the quiet cabin of the jeep. “We always do.” _

_ Stiles nods, fingers drumming on the sticky leather of the steering wheel. It was true. It was what they did best. They took puzzles and put them together. Sometimes it took weeks; other times, minutes. But it was their thing. They had a  _ thing _.  _

_ Sometimes he doesn’t know where he’d be if Scott hadn’t started dating Allison, and if Lydia hadn’t roped Allison up on her first day at Beacon Hills. Would he be solving these puzzles by himself, taking too long and risking everyone’s safety because of it? Or would he be long gone by now? _

_ He glances over at her, red hair turning blue, and then violet, in the neon lights. She runs her thumb under the lip of her cup, gathering the sugar on her finger and sticking it in her mouth.  _

_ “I killed Donovan.”  _

_ It just...comes out, cutting through the sleepy ambiance of their quiet excursion. Lydia’s thumb slips out from between her lips, and falls into her lap. His heart jumps restlessly in his chest, breaking everything around it.  _

_ He’s wanted to tell her for a while now, but not this way. Not like this.  _

_ Maybe in a few years, when the moment felt right. Maybe right before she falls asleep on his bed for the tenth time this month. Maybe when she’s already pieced it together, like the excellent puzzlist that she is.  _

_ But he hadn’t. And it was all Scott’s fault. Everything these days felt like his fault. Lydia loves Scott; loves everything he stands for. And, though a part of him knows she must love him too—  in a very complex, specific sort of way— it’s not the way she loves Scott: unbreakable, binding, and completely.  _

_ He lets his jealousy simmer, low and acidic in his stomach. He hadn’t told her because she will side with Scott, because Scott is right of course. Scott is good. Because she loves him, more than she loves Stiles.  _

_ Scott is the sun, and everyone is just greenery, stretching out, reaching to his warmth. Stiles feels like a weed in a garden, twisted and bitter and unwanted. He killed something.  _

_ Someone.  _

_ Anxiously, he waits for her reaction, picturing her spinning around and staring at him in horror. Or maybe throwing the car door open, running into the night.  _

_ Instead, she keeps her eyes on the road, and takes another sip of coffee. But she does gently place her hand on top of his. _

_ Stiles stares at their skin, veins blue in both of their hands. The sight feels indescribably human.  _

_ “Thank you,” she says, and places her coffee in the cupholder between them. _

_ “What?” _

_ “Thank you. For telling me.”  _

_ Stiles feels his throat begin to constrict. “Lydia…” _

_ She shakes her head, and grips his hand tighter in hers. “Something has been bothering you for a long time now. I… well, I thought it was me. I’m sorry I was selfish about it. I should’ve just asked you. I want...I want you to feel like you can come to me. For anything. I want to be here for you.”  _

_ That’s what starts it. Once Lydia tells him that, he can’t seem to stop crying. His free hand comes up to cover his face, and his shoulders shake, and he’s horribly embarrassed by this overflow of emotion that’s been pooling in him like a black hole. He’s wanted this from somebody. Needed it, even.  _

_ But, in the end, of course it had to be from her.  _

_ She lets him cry, and he thinks about how fucking angry he is. At Theo, at Scott. At the pack, and how he lives in a fucking hell hole in California. He’s angry with her too, for upgrading to a beefy, wet blanket detective with zero personality and an already receding hairline. He’s angry with Malia for reasons he can’t even begin to make sense of. He’s so, so angry all the time. But most of all, he’s angry with himself. _

_ No.  _

_ Angry isn’t the right word.  _ Hate _ is.  _

_ “Shhh, Stiles,” she breathes. But he’s not ready to talk about it.  _

_ If he tells her about it, he won’t be able to stop. He’ll tell her about the slip of his sneakers in Donovan’s blood, and how he had wanted to survive so desperately, but when he came home all he wanted to do was kill himself. And then he’ll tell her that he wants to throw up at any given moment because not only is he furious, he’s also scared shitless that someone will find out.  _

_ And then there’s that part of him that thinks about Donovan chasing him down, and the squeaking of his shoes on the linoleum hallway as he runs so hard and so fast he feels like his lungs might burst. And how it was fight or flight and all he did was run because he’s so fucking tired of fighting, but somehow it ended up in a bloodbath anyway. And that he knows there’s no higher power, and the universe operates on chaotic randomness and doesn’t have it out for him, but it sure fucking feels like it.  _

_ “Stiles, whatever you did, we’ll figure it out together. Just like our puzzles. You’re not alone.”  _

_ “But I should be,” he chokes out from behind his shaking palm. “Lydia, I should be.” _

_ “No. I won’t let you be alone. Stiles--” _

_ “Why.”  _

_ “...Why what?” _

_ “Why won’t you let me be alone.” _

_ Lydia exhales, slowly sinking back into the passenger seat. She takes his hand from the wheel and lays it in her lap. Stiles looks at her from the side of his red-rimmed eyes. _

_ “We all know what it’s like to be alone. Truly alone.” She strokes his hand with her fingertips. It’s so gentle and soft. His mother used to do that to help him fall asleep. “You don’t want that, Stiles. I don’t want that for you either.”  _

_ “Scott’s gonna--” _

_ “We’re not talking about Scott right now. We’re talking about you.” _

_ “Donovan’s family--” _

_ “Stiles. I know I should care about that. But I can’t right now. I can’t focus on anything but you,” Lydia hisses. Her eyes are so bright and earnest, it’s almost blinding. _

_ “Why does it feel like the world is out to get us?” He murmurs thickly. “Why does it feel like everything I touch just rots?” They stare at their interlaced fingers, sitting in her floral lap.  _

_ Lydia smiles tightly, shaking her head at him. Her eyes are wet too. “Funny you say that, when it feels like you make everything around you grow.” _

 

_ He drives her home at five in the morning, the sky beginning to blush softly. They’ve made an unspoken pact. When Lydia opens the door, they won’t speak of this again, to anyone. The secret still feels crushing on his shoulders, but it’s no longer impossible to carry now that there’s two who hold it.  _

_ Lydia swings her legs out of the jeep, and plops herself down on the driveway, turning to close the door. _

_ “You have us.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “You always have me.” _

_ He doesn’t say anything to that. Sometimes they don’t need words. They’ve never really been good at words anyway.  _

__ Lydia is taken a week later. His anger burns him alive.  
  


* * *

 

 

  
The thing about Lydia’s ass is that it is absolutely breathtaking. He could spot it in a crowd from a mile away. He knows what it looks like in swishy, breezy skirts; in stretchy, practically see-through yoga pants. Hell, he’s even had the rare but  _ blessed _ experience of witnessing it in jeans. 

But Lydia in a tennis skirt is an entirely different experience. 

He licks his sandpaper lips and dribbles the green ball on the surface of the Argent tennis court. Anything to occupy his hands, really, because Lydia is currently bending over to touch her toes and he can see  _ everything _ .

“That’s a beautiful stretch you’re doing, honey. Great form,” he calls, and she grins diabolically over her shoulder. 

They’ve yet to get to an actual game. She’s been “stretching” in front of him for a good ten minutes now. 

It started off innocently enough. He had woken up to Lydia in a gleeful mood, dressed head to toe in white, breathable fabric. And honestly, Stiles is a simple man. Lydia says ‘jump,’ he says ‘how high.’ Lydia says ‘we’re playing tennis,’ and Stiles says, ‘your legs are so fucking hot in that skirt.’ 

Then the stretching came. He plotted himself across from her, divided by space and a waist-high tennis net, and watched patiently as she raised her arms above her head, rolling her neck languidly. It made her ribs stretch and her tits push out and, well, he’s never really had much of a good poker face around her. Hence, his current predicament. 

Lydia’s ponytail cascades down her arm like a caress, and he can’t help but call out to her again.

“Okay, okay. I think it’s time we get to the main event, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” she laughs, and then, she has the goddamn audacity to wiggle her ass at him. “I think it’s about time we do.” 

It’s criminal. 

The pleated white skirt had kissed her asscheeks as she walked, tempting him all the way to the courts. And now, stretched out in front of him, thin, white cotton panties just barely cover her. Stiles can see the luscious dips and curves of her sex, her ass, and everything in between. She’s clearly selected her outfit wisely. He’s not surprised in the slightest. Lydia’s always had a particular brand of calculated cruelty. 

He feels himself gulp so hard it actually hurts. “Lyds,” he says, and it’s so embarrassing how whiney it sounds. “Come on.”

“Mmm,” she hums. “No, Stiles.  _ You _ come on.”

“Come on where? Ha.”

Lydia slowly straightens back up, smirking over her shoulder all the while. “Catch me, and you can take your pick.” And then she blows him a kiss, and takes off in the opposite direction, ponytail bouncing and laughter ringing in his ears. 

The tennis ball that had endured the brunt of his sexual frustration falls forgotten to his feet. Stiles doesn’t think. He huffs out a single, indignatious guffaw, and then bolts after her.

He didn’t see where she took off to, but he can occasionally hear her tinkling laugh, and it makes his heart soar into the stratosphere. Lydia, laughing like that, is nothing short of a miraculous, scientific discovery. 

Rose bushes blur and bleed around him, filling the summer air with their perfume. He feels the soft, manicured grass give way underfoot. His arms pump and his lungs burn as he sprints to find her, grinning all the while. 

He takes a left, then a right. Passes a water fountain, a willow tree, an aging statue, and then promptly screeches to a halt in front of an unimpressed looking Helena Argent.

“Oh shiiii--” he stammers out, breathlessly. She arches a single eyebrow and he decides not to finish that line of thought.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Yeah, uh, good afternoon.” Does he bow now? Should he bow?

“I see you’re enjoying the summer day?”

“Yes ma’am. It definitely has...spectacular views.” 

Helena Argent nods curtly, but there’s something in her eye that dances. “Yes, the Argent mansion is well known for it’s gardens. We should have tea soon, and take a tour.”

Stiles nods distractedly, heart still thrumming in his chest and mind still on a petite, mercilessly teasing body. “Yeah, that sounds great. Lydia would really love that.”

Helena nods again, and looks down to pick a piece of lint from the cuff of her summer suit. “Oh no,” she says, discarding the offending fluff. “I think you misinterpreted. ‘We.’ You, Mr. Stilinski, and myself. This is actually a closed invitation.”  

That gets his attention. He snaps his head to her, jaw clenching and eyes blazing. “...Oh?”

“Of course, I love Miss Martin’s presence, as do we all. But I think it’s high time you and I had a little chat. This little tea party of ours needs to remain intimate.”

“Any business you want to run by me, has to be run by Lydia too.”

“Once more, you misinterprete my meaning. This isn’t business.”

“I’m guessing it’s not for pleasure, either.”

“That,”  Helena says, retreating with a turn of her heel, “I  _ will _ leave entirely up to interpretation. Do get tea soon, though. You can’t hide forever, you know.” 

 

* * *

_  
In truth, like most things in his life, he hadn’t really planned for it to unfold this way. For years, it had always scratched at the back of his brain, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. It kept him up at night, and vexed him during the day. It had bubbled and boiled and now it had spilled over. There is no coming back from that. _

_ He stomps on the gas, and streetlights blur by at breakneck speed. He is the only car on the highway, and the night stretches endlessly on. He feels the cold chill of air on his face, all windows down, wind thundering in his ears. _

_ It would be so easy to crash the car. Maybe he should crash the car. He wants the car to crash.  _

_ He is the car crash. He is the breakneck speed. He is every mile per hour over the speed limit; the smell of gasoline and the match, constantly hovering above the spillage. He is the thundering wind and the cold night air, and the water on Lydia’s cheeks as he left her behind. He is the itch that can’t be scratched. _

_ Stiles lets himself get lost until it’s just miles between him and her and the town his mother was born and buried in and the town in which he had planned to do just the same.  _

_ She would get over him, eventually. They all would.  _

_ They would find ways to cope and move on. They would find that in each other. And really, it was always meant to be this way. They deserved that from him. And Stiles deserved to push the gas pedal down, faster, faster, faster. Ninety, to a hundred. _

_ He had always been moving. Always in a permanent state of fast-forward. _

_ He was always going, going, gone.  _

 

* * *

 

Lydia always takes the warmth away when she leaves in the early morning light. 

He’s a light sleeper now. He’s become accustomed to bolting upright in the middle of the night, or twitching anxiously at every miniscule creak and groan emitted by the darkness. 

Being woken by Lydia sitting up and taking the covers with her is an infinitely better compromise. 

“Lab again?” he asks, timbre just above a low rumble. Lydia looks back at him from over her bare shoulder.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I need to observe my cells. They keep mutating.” 

“Hot.”

She laughs without making a sound, and Stiles reaches up to place his palm on her sleep warmed skin, spreading his fingers out to take up the span of her back, spine in the dead center. 

“You’re amazing,” he says, because it’s true. She looks thoughtful at this. 

“Don’t tell me that until I’ve actually developed a counter-reaction. Then you can worship at my feet.”

“Don’t I already do that?”

“You certainly did last night.” 

She does this a lot now; making jokes. Usually at his expense, and almost always sexual in nature. It keeps things light. 

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t think about the beginning of the trip, when they both were on the brink of tears at any given point. Fighting like enemies and feeling their deep wounds rip open, only just on the verge of healing. They were at each other’s throats, the conversation that needed to happen on the tips of their tongues. They used words to inflict damage. To hit where it hurt.

Now they use words as a distraction. Like this place, the Argent mansion, is a beautiful limbo where they can pretend forever. 

They can pretend they aren’t being hunted down, and that the wellbeing of their friends and families weren’t at stake, daily. They could pretend this home was theirs, and they were on summer vacation, where the food was divine and the sex was even better. 

He knows, with a certainty that ticks in his chest like an inescapable, formidable countdown, that it’s only a matter of time till the spell is broken. 

Stiles has been afraid for the majority of his life. It’s a feeling he’s well acquainted with. But, when he thinks about finally leaving the peaceful abeyance of this mansion, it’s the first time he considers himself to be a coward. 

Lydia slinks off the mattress, and he lets his hand fall from her skin.

“Why don’t I come with you?” he says, and it hadn’t been a legitimate idea until it was vocalized. 

She pauses, stockings halfway up her thighs. “What?”

“Yeah, why don’t I come to the lab?”

Her head tilts, and they examine each other for a silent moment. “...Okay. But--”

“Don’t worry,” he says, because he’s spent almost all of his life living and getting to the know the ins and outs of her. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”

 

 

Stiles is not sure if the Argent’s laboratory is the most high tech lab Lydia’s ever worked in, but it certainly is for him. 

It’s pristine; all white wash walls and gleaming aluminum. But it’s not sterile, like the labs he’s seen Lydia work in before. There’s signs of life. A coffee cup with a ring left behind on the counter, two boulder-like men cracking jokes over a petri dish. 

It’s almost disconcerting to see so many bodybuilders wearing safety goggles and handling beakers with gentle finesse, like these two worlds should be on opposite ends of the spectrum. Usually Lydia’s co-workers are spectacled and spotty, waifish and undeniably geeky. 

And then there’s Lydia, moving through the throng with kitten heels and tight dresses and meticulously swept-up hair. Once again, Stiles is reminded that he’s used to seeing her in this element. Had he been an observer, like so many are in her life, she would be the anomaly.  _ She _ would be the odd man out. 

He sits on the stool beside her, clutching onto her lab notes with white knuckles as she turns the fine focus knob of the microscope. 

“Class One A,” she says aloud, and he begins to scribble as neatly as he can. “Toxicity Level. Original observation categorized it as a Class Eight. Mutagenic. This has since been disputed.” 

She lifts her head, brushing a fly away behind her ear, and hunches over once more. 

“Stiles, could you please clean the aperture of the microscope while I return the sample?” Lydia says in a short, perfunctory tone, and with gloved hands, she collects the sample and crosses to the opposite end of the lab.

Stiles likes it.

He likes that she talks to him like an assistant, and not like someone who had made her come three times with the tip of his tongue just a few hours ago. 

Lydia didn’t have to tell him to take this seriously; to not goof off, crack jokes, or make her laugh. There’s no room for that here. The lab is Lydia’s kingdom and she rules supreme. Everyone and everything in here is secondary to her. 

He likes being in her domain. Lydia worships at the altar of math and science, and he worships at the altar of her. This is her church, and it becomes his through association. 

Though, Stiles notes as he wipes down the glass of the microscope, the Argents give her wide berth. They huddle over their notes in the corner, or shoot the shit by the windows. No one asks her a question. No one cleans her table for her as she moves on from one study to the next. 

This may be Lydia’s empire, but she is a ruler in a territory that is not her own. 

“Hey,” Lydia says as she approaches, beaker in each hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, breaking his gaze from her indifferent servants and flipping to a fresh page. He brings the pen up to the paper. “Ready when you are.”

  
  


 

“You’re a fucking moron,” Isaac says, swinging his arms and smacking the golf ball. It arches high in the sky and lands somewhere yards away. If Stiles knew anything about golf, he’d bet it was a good hit. 

Whatever. Isaac looks ridiculous in those shorts. 

“What are you trying to tell me here, Lahey?”

“Why do people say you’re smart? Honestly, I’ve never understood that.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes and adjusts the bag of golf clubs on his shoulder. Isaac had loaded it up to the brim with the heaviest clubs, of fucking course, and his request to go golfing with just Stiles was more of a demand than a request. 

Stiles had vehemently declined, but then Isaac told him he needed to discuss Lydia, and well. What can he say? Stiles, when it comes to Lydia, is undeniably predictable. 

They had trekked, (Isaac with his nose in the air, Stiles skulking grumpily behind him), through endless stretches of green hills and manicured landscapes for four holes before Isaac had finally dropped the bait. 

“You remember when we were freshman, and Lydia won prom queen by a unanimous vote at a prom for seniors?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, making a ‘ _ duh _ ,’ expression.

“And remember how Lydia’s parties were absolutely legendary, and everyone showed up?”

“Yeah, Isaac. I think I’m pretty familiar with Lydia’s history, thank you very fucking much.” 

Isaac smirks, reaching for a club. He brings it up to eye level, and examines the length of the pole. It’s the most pretentious thing Stiles has seen him do in twenty minutes, when he last did another pretentious thing. (He licked his finger and stuck it in the air to check the direction of the breeze. Stiles had seriously considered the weight of the caddy bag, and if it was enough to strike him unconscious). 

“Well,” Isaac continues, “then you know that despite the parties, the popularity...she also had no friends.” 

Stiles shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I know.”

Isaac shrugs noncommittally and reaches for another club. “This place is like high school.” 

“Oh yeah? So, like, you’re the outcast loser who no one likes or talks to?”

“No,” Isaac says, looking at the ground to line up his shot. “No, Stiles. Lydia is.” And then he swings, and the ball goes sailing, taking Stiles’ heart with it. 

It shouldn’t have taken Isaac to open his eyes to the way the Argents stop talking when she enters the room. Or how they left her alone to conduct her research in the laboratory. Or how last night, the crowd parted for Lydia. He had thought it was respect; reverence. 

It wasn’t. 

“...Why?” he asks, and something in his voice makes Isaac turn away from the the sun to look at him instead, hand still stretching across his forehead to shield his eyes. 

“...She’s different. Everyone knows that. But you and I don’t think of that the way they do.”

“Why the fuck would they judge her?” Stiles spits, hand flinging out in the space between them. “Hell, I’m the one they should be suspicious of!”

“I mean, yeah,” Isaac huffs. “But you’re also a human, aren’t you? And I may be a werewolf, but Lydia’s a  _ banshee _ . Remember how anytime someone figured that out it seemed like a big fucking deal? It’s because it  _ is _ one. And she also happens to be the reason this whole Collector thing is happening.”

“She’s not the reason--!”

“She’s the motive, Stiles. She’s the one their entire operation is revolving around right now.” 

“So it’s her fault--?!”

“Did I say that? No. Come on, you know I’m with you on this,” Isaac argues, and they both still, breathing heavy and glaring at each other under a cloudless sky. 

The thing is, Stiles does know Isaac is with him on this. Chris Argent as well. They are on the same team. They are on her side. The three of them would take on the entire Argent clan for her. The world, too. 

Lydia was worth it. She is always,  _ always  _ worth it.

Isaac gives him one more withering stare before turning his back to Stiles, blocking out the glare of the sun. “Just thought you should know, since it concerns Lydia. Now that you’re more aware of the position we’re all in, I thought you could help make sure she doesn’t feel that isolation, the way she did in high school.”

Lydia, the most popular and loneliest person in high school. Lydia, who was ripped from the pages of a fashion magazine and who dreamed about molecular biology. Lydia, who never expressed her feelings and ripped a hole in time and space for a boy she kissed once. 

She was bitten by a werewolf, and then became best friends with one. His name, once unknown to her, now impossible to forget, even if she tried. 

It’s still unfathomable to Stiles that the world can turn and revolve and keep spinning, and yet there are people living their lives without any clue to how remarkable she is. 

“And Stiles?” Isaac calls over his shoulder, already walking to the next putting green. “You’re wanted for tea.”

 

* * *

 

_ Cash is King. Everything; every transaction, purchase, price, is done in cash. That way it’s untraceable, and constantly on his body.  _

_ The first thing he does once he leaves is sell his phone. The second thing he sells is his jeep. It went for less than his phone did. Both material objects were painful goodbyes, though both for different reasons.  _

_ On his phone were momentos, messages and photographs from another life. He had met with a seedy looking guy on a street corner for the sale, and for the last time he looked at the contact pictures of Lydia, Scott. His pack. His father.  _

_ He read his final text message, a quick gray cloud from Scott:  _ **_Please, Stiles. Please don’t do this._ **

_ He wipes it clean. Hands it to the stranger. The whole transaction is less than a minute.  _

_ It was strange, watching his jeep fade into the horizon with someone else as the driver, and Stiles, not even a passenger. He watches it dip into the setting sun, and everything is fire. He squints against the giant flame as the orange swallows the small blip of blue. Then it’s gone, like it never existed in the first place.  _

_ Stiles stands on a street in the bad part of the city with no phone, no transportation. He kicks gravel by his feet. Glances out of the corner of his eye at the sound of a mother calling her children in for dinner. Wipes his eyes. Picks a direction. Starts walking.  _

 

 

_ Trouble finds him, as it always does. Stiles isn’t sure what it is about him that just seems to attract the supernatural, like a moth to flame, or a magnet to metal, but it only takes a week for something to find him. _

_ He pumps his arms, and his lungs burn as he throws himself through empty doorway after empty doorway in the abandoned warehouse he’d been sleeping in.  _

_ Behind him, something both slithers and clomps, and the combination of sound makes his toes curl and his skin prickle.  _

_ “Stay away from me! Stay the fuck away from me!” he screams over his shoulder. But it stalks him, now moaning and humming so low the vibration shakes in his chest. Stiles feels wet, hot breath on his neck, and then the scrape of teeth. _

_ Blindly, he swings his elbow back and clocks it in the jaw. It howls, and both of them tumble to the floor. Stiles rolls to his side, jumping up and scanning the empty, concrete space. His bat is three floors below with his backpack, the only possessions he now owns. But there are concrete slabs, and metal piping; giant rocks and shards of broken glass. He throws his body over a twisted metal pipe, just as long, sharp teeth rip into his shoulder. _

_ With a scream, Stiles flips onto his back, and drives the pole through. There are three distinctions that, when he falls asleep later that night, cycle in and out.  _

_ One: the feeling of the pole as it pushes past pliable, fur covered skin. Then the mushy, malleable insides of the torso, all gore and guts. And then finally, the bone it scrapes against as it crunches through spine and out the other side.  _

_ Two: the smell of blood as it hits the stale, dusty air of the warehouse. The metallic tang and the wet scent of earth after rain. It’s dark in the warehouse but the blood is bright red, and everywhere, immediately. His hands, his face, his thin cotton t-shirt.  _

_ Three: the sound it makes. It enters the skin with a push and a ‘pop.’ It squelches through the middle, and exits the body with a violent noise he’d never heard before and can’t put words to just yet.  _

_ It’s dead almost instantly. The furry figure falls wetly on top of him, pushing the air from his lungs. He gasps and cries out, frantically wiggling his way out from underneath the heavy body.  _

_ With shaking legs and heaving breaths, he stands and examines his attacker. It looks like a fully transformed werewolf, but it's not. It’s more lithe, spine more hunchbacked, and fur patchy. Two long fangs dribble out of a wet muzzled mouth. It’s ugly as sin. _

_ “It’s a chupacabra.”  _

_ Stiles jumps into the air with a shout, spinning wildly to face the sudden new voice standing yards away. A man, early thirties, stands watching, hands in pockets. His mouth is serious, his eyes gentle and dark, his skin golden. The man should put Stiles on edge, but instead he just makes him ache. _

_ “A chupa--?” _

_ “--Cabra.”  _

_ They stand staring at each other. Stiles feels blood pool and soak into his socks. He squishes his toes in it.  _

_ “I’m Maurice. My pack is close by. Heard the howl and came to investigate. Thought I was gonna have to help you. Turns out you had it covered, huh?” _

_ Stiles licks his lips and squints at him. “My shoulder would beg to differ, but as long as chupacabras don’t have venom I should live to see another shitty day.”  _

_ “This one’s a female, so there’s no need to worry about poison.” _

_ “....What.” _

_ Maurice’s mouth quirks. “Relax, hombre. You survived it, didn’t you?” _

_ Stiles is covered in blood. ‘Survived’ is a very interesting word. _

_ “How do they transform? Like, do I need to slice it in half like a were--?” _

_ “They ain’t remotely human. This supernatural creature is more animal than man.” Maurice digs into his pocket and pulls out a silver cigarette tin. He flicks it open and lights one up. Taking a deep drag, he blows out smoke, eyes on the fresh body at Stiles’ feet. _

_ “Want one?” he says, holding out the cigarettes. _

_ Stiles raises his hand to decline but thinks better of it. “I don’t sm--...actually, you know what? Yeah. Fuck it.”  _

_ Together, he and Maurice stare at the body, each dragging a cigarette in silence.  _

_ “You smell human.” _

_ “I am human.” _

_ “Never seen a human pull shit like this before.” _

_ “I’m used to it, unfortunately.” _

_ “Oh yeah? Got a body count?” _

_ There’s blood under his fingernails, but the cigarette burns his lungs and it’s a beautiful distraction. “...Wish I didn’t.” _

_ Maurice raises his occupied hand to his mouth and looks at him thoughtfully. “You should come with me….?” _

__ “Michael” Stiles says.  
  


* * *

  
Someone always cleans their room when they leave. There has been no sign of maid service or staffing. Not even landscapers meticulously maintaining the garden grounds. So even though a freshly made bed with still-warm sheets and a crackling fire in the fireplace should delight him, instead it makes him paranoid. 

“Relax,” Lydia says, combing her hair and looking particularly stunning in a blush silk robe. “Stiles, you’ve been grilling that dusted mantle for half an hour now.”

“I’m going to set up a camera and see who does this. Do you think the Argents have house elves?”

Lydia rolls her eyes and lays back onto the bed’s goose feather pillows. “They’re Argents, not Malfoys.”

“Ooo. Lydia Martin, engaging in Harry Potter repartee? Ten points to Ravenclaw.” 

“It’s a significant step up from Star Wars, which is your usual brand of torture.” 

Stiles puts his hands on his hips, turning to glare at her over his shoulder. But he’s greeted by her smile, and the way she’s smiling at him turns his brain to oatmeal. 

“Nah,” he says, and he doesn’t care that his voice is soft. “I have another vice that’s much more superior.”

“Oh yeah?” Lydia whispers, still smiling. “More than jedi heroes?” 

“Mmhmm.”

“More than epic journeys and intergalactic space justice?”

“Yup.”

“More than galaxies and stars and moons and infinity and everything after?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, now smiling too. “So much more.”

He watches Lydia swallow hard. She brings a hand up to the front of her robe and parts it for him. 

Slowly, he saunters to join her on the bed, laying himself by her side and propping his body up with his elbow. Still smiling, he runs his fingertips over the soft fabric, and parts her robe even further.

“I haven’t seen this on you yet.”

“Color you surprised?” she smirks

“Color me _ interested _ . Come now, Lydia. Do share with the class.” 

She gives a little laugh as his hand trails down to her stomach. She stops laughing when his fingers pull the neat little bow that ties her robe together. He feels the slow, gentle pull of the tie, and then the graceful parting as the robe gives way. 

Lydia stretches out languidly beneath his gaze. Dark, emerald green lingerie cups and drapes over her fair frame, like oil paint on canvas. It’s a beautiful masterpiece; one Stiles feels should be hung in a museum, safe and sound. Away from dirty fingers and the changing of time. 

It’s hard for him not to idolize her, just like it’s hard for him not to idolize Scott. She is flawless and complicated. She makes mistakes. He tends to forget that’s what humans do. They are no different than him, save a little less complicated. A little less messy. A little less lost.

“You’re thinking,” Lydia murmurs into his ear as his palm rubs her stomach absentmindedly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, licking his lips. “I do that sometimes.”

“Think later.”

Stiles quirks his head, laughing through his nose at her. “You are  _ shocking _ me tonight, Lydia Martin.” 

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Oh yeah? Show me a surprise.” 

That’s all it takes. He falls onto his back, air whooshing out of him, as Lydia pushes him down and straddles his hips. They grin at each other, and then she rocks over his crotch, both of their mouths falling open in an ‘O.’

Stiles sucks in a breath through his teeth, bringing his hands up to hold her hips and guide her ministrations. Lydia arches her back for him, and the sight of her teasing his already aching cock in delicate, expensive lingerie is nothing short of divine. 

“Fuuuuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Lyds, just like that.” 

“I want you to fill me up, Stiles,” she pants, eyes closed and hair falling in her face. “I want you to make me whole.”

He wants to tell her she’s already whole on her own. She’s always been whole. 

But that isn’t necessarily true. She wasn’t whole when she was with Jackson. She wasn’t whole when she was hiding. 

Lydia became whole through other people, and there’s nothing wrong with that. She became whole over time. But if people made her whole, what if they’re taken away? Does the whole remain? Or is it like earth in the rain, beautifully and gently eroding over time? And doesn’t that hurt? To become, and then to un-become?

Is it better to erode, or to be empty? To gradually wear away, or to never have been whole in the first place?

“Stop thinking,” Lydia whispers into his ear, canting her hips over his own. “Relax.”

Stiles mouths at her neck, licking up to her ear and sucking under her throat. “God, Stiles,” she gasps. “You’re going to mark me up.”

“That’s the point,” he huffs into her skin. “I want you to know you’re wanted.”

She sighs at that; a pretty, breathy sound that goes straight to his dick. 

Gently, he flips them over, rolling their bodies until she’s on her back.

“Are you wet, Lydia? Are you wet for me?”

She whines, throwing her arms over her head and stretching her legs. She closes her eyes and gives a curt nod.

“Show me.”

Slowly, she parts her legs for him, letting them fall wide open and exposing her center. Stiles eyes her hungrily, and nestles his body between her thighs. 

He begins to pepper kisses over the softness of her milky skin, over her stomach, over the staining dark green, stretching over her pussy. It feels so soft. So intimate. 

He’s missed this. Stiles has had his face between women’s thighs before, but it’s just inexplicably different. He enjoys oral. But Lydia...he  _ ravishes _ Lydia. He used to wake up from dreams  _ starving _ ; the taste of her sex like an afterthought on his tongue.

“Stiles,” Lydia whines above him. “You’re thinking again.”

“What’s wrong with thinking?” he says, pulling aside her panties and parting her folds with his thumb. He lays it flat on her clit, and pushes it like a button. She jerks at the sensation. 

“N-nothing’s wrong with thinking,” she clears her throat. He slides a finger into her, and she squirms, beginning to pant. “I’d just rather-- _ fuck _ \--feel.”

It’s the closest thing either of them will come to saying,  _ Let’s fuck this away. Let’s not think too hard or too long about this. Distract me.  _

“God,” Lydia mewls as he begins to work his fingers in and out of her warmth. “God, yes that feels so good. I want more.”

He adds another finger, pumping them into her. “More, Stiles.” 

He adds a third.

She’s squirming around him, mouth falling open, lips pouty and flushed. He watches her eyes roll underneath their lids. 

“Feels good?” he asks. “Feel me deep inside you?”

Lydia nods, pushing her head deep into the pillow. “Yesss,” she hisses. “Yes it feels so good. More.”

She’s already so tight, and though she’s sopping wet, Stiles hesitates. 

“Come on, Stiles,” Lydia begs. “Come on, I want to feel it. I want to be stuffed.” 

It’s fucking hot as hell. It’s also a little sad. 

He doesn’t know why.

Stiles rises to his knees, peeling her wet panties off with him. Lydia opens her eyes, watching as he brings them to his chest and holds them close.

“I want to do something,” he says.

Lydia looks at him for a brief moment.  _ Really  _ looks at him. “...Do it.”

Stiles brings her underwear to his mouth, and locks his eyes on her. He licks it, kisses it, and then sinks back onto his stomach in front of her.

Tenderly, carefully, he tucks a corner of the fabric into the center of her pussy. 

Lydia breathes out slowly above him. He waits for permission or rejection. She gives neither. 

Stiles looks at it, hanging between her legs. It should look peculiar, but it just looks beautiful. Soft. Gentle. 

He wonders if it’s just Lydia’s uncanny ability to do that to everything, or his uncanny ability to see that in her. 

Stiles brings his face to the top of her cunt and massages his tongue over her clit. Lydia rocks her hips and rolls her head and stretches her legs, but she’s breathless and quiet, trusting him to take over and make her feel good. 

He takes his finger and pushes more of the fabric into her. Lydia keeps panting. There’s an air of caution, and also of excitement, that hangs heavy between them. He fucks her with his tongue and his fingers, panties hanging half out of her.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Does it feel good?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Want more?”

“Uh-huh.”

Stiles takes two fingers and inserts the rest, filling her up like she had begged. He leaves a corner of it peeking out, and then he runs his tongue up the length of her, groaning into her folds. 

She moans with him, arching her back and squeezing the bed sheets above her head.

“Stiles,” she murmurs. “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.”

He sucks and licks and fucks her with his tongue; her underwear resting inside of her, filling her up. Lydia twists and gasps above him and her chest is pink and flushed and it’s just so fucking pretty.

“Come on, Lydia,” he breathes. “Show me.”

And she does. She comes with a long, drawn out whine, biting her lip as hot tears leak from the corners of her eyes and roll into her hair. Her back arches so severely her head buries itself into her pillow. 

Stiles works her through it, there for her the entire time as she rides out wave after wave. 

When she collapses onto her back, he drags himself up her body and kisses her forehead and face until she opens her eyes. Only when she meets his eyes does he slither back down, taking the small strip of fabric, and pulling it with his mouth.

She breathes out as he slowly removes it, eyes locked on his until it’s all the way out and dangling between his teeth. 

They stare at each other, quiet. 

“Wow,” Lydia murmurs.

“Wow,” Stiles agrees. 

“I think our no-thinking policy worked in our favor.”

“Well,” he grins wolfishly and clutches the soaked panties, “if you ever think you’re getting these back, think again.”

  
  


 

Stiles wishes he could sleep, but the looming promise of tea with Helena Argent has his mind whirring at a hundred miles an hour. He needs peace. He needs to visit the room.

He’s visited it every night since they found it. He visits the room when Lydia is sleeping, always in the dark. It feels wrong to do it in the light of day, like it should be kept quiet and secret, and though he’s a frequent visitor, it just never fucking gets easier.

Stiles glances over at Lydia’s body, watching the mountain ridge of her spine rise and fall with each slow breath. And then he turns, slithering out of the bed sheets, across the room, and out of the door. 

 

The hallways are always inky and unlit, but there are occasionally candelabras to light the way. The whole effect is archaic, like the Argents never believed in modern electricity, even though half of them own iPhones. It makes everything that more secretive, when the flames flicker and dance as he passes, and throw his face in and out of shadow. 

They really should be more careful, considering how well acquainted some Argents are with house fires.

Somberly, Stiles lets his feet move ahead of him, guiding his way more so than his mind. It’s all muscle memory now, and he gravitates to it, allowing the pull to drag him under. 

Two lefts, a right. A straight walk back. Three flights of stairs. Right again. And then there it is. 

Sometimes he runs his fingers over the name. Sometimes he can’t bare to touch it at all. But he watches and looks and looks and looks. 

He remembers. 

It’s the least he can do.

This hallway is pitch black, save for the moonlight. Miraculously, there is moonlight, always, no matter the night or the clouds from the day. It dusts everything in pale, quiet tenderness. It’s almost child-like. It reverts him to memories of lullabyes, where everything was so soft and so loved.

He likes to think that the moon will always be like this, in this hallway. He wants to know that Allison’s room is cocooned in this secret wing, bathing in moonbeams. Just him, and Allison, and the gentle, gentle moonlight.  
  


* * *

 

_ “You don’t have to go,” Maurice tells him, but he’s too busy shoving clothes into his backpack to listen to anything except the blood that’s roaring in his ears. “We all saw what happened, Michael. We won’t judge--” _

_ “I can’t,” Stiles says shortly. Briefly. He can’t let himself feel right now. He just needs to concentrate on getting out. “I can’t stay, I just can’t--” _

_ “Everything will be okay! We’ll take care of y--” _

_ Stiles lifts his head to look at the pleading brown eyes of Maurice, and shakes his own. “I’ve done this before,” he says, running his hand over his mouth. “I’ve done this before, and I’m not about to do it again. Not to you.” _

_ “Hombre. Hermano. You’re not alone in this. We taught you to fight and how to defend yourself, and you taught us so much too. Strategy. Thinking five steps ahead. Our pack is flourishing because of you and we owe you--” _

_ “You don’t owe me.” Stiles laughs darkly, viciously zipping up the bag. “I owe  _ **_you_ ** _. You owe me nothing.” _

_ Stiles makes to leave, crossing the room and passing Maurice, but he reaches out and grabs his wrist, forcing Stiles to stay in one place for once. “Please,” Maurice begs, and it hurts it hurts it hurts. “Michael. Please don’t don’t do this.” _

_ “I fucking bashed that man’s head in. You saw it happen. You saw I lost control--” _

_ “We all lose control. We’re goddamn werewolves.” _

_ “No,” Stiles shakes his head, and wrenches his arm from his grip. “ _ **_You’re_ ** _ a werewolf. I’m fucked up.” _

_ This time, Maurice lets him go. _

 

* * *

 

_ The pack changed him. It gave him shelter for a year, and resources, and survival skills. It also gave him motive, when Stiles had his first intentional kill. It was a rival pack that threatened Maurice’s.  _

_ Stiles wiped them out one by one. He told himself it was for Maurice. For Scott. For Lydia. _

__ Bloodshed, all justified. All in the name of love.  
  


* * *

 

_ He sleeps with people.  _

_ They are not Lydia, though the first time he sleeps with someone who isn’t her, she’s a petite redhead. Then he sends her home and immediately runs to the bathroom to be sick.  _

_ After that, they vary. They’re tall or leggy or brunette or braided or whatever. He has no type. His only type is a type that’s not  _ **_her_ ** _. _

_ And it’s not that he’s trying to wipe the memory of her. It’s just that, even though he might have evolved into something he barely recognizes as human, he still is one. He still has carnal needs. He wants that closeness. He hates that he feels the way he does about sex, but there’s the undeniable truth of it all. _

__ He’s lonely.  
  


* * *

 

_ Stiles continues to study. He goes from town to town, training and fucking and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, all under the guise of another identity.  _

_ Packs catch on. Packs start to pay for his skills. And then there comes a day he doesn’t need the random packs anymore. He doesn’t need their money, or their skillset.  _

_ He has his own. _

_ He gets it from the pockets of the murderers he slaughters. He funds his way across California and beyond.  _

_ His pockets are full and he is so desperately empty.  _

 

* * *

 

__ Trouble stops finding him once he becomes the trouble.  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Stiles buys a flat in cash and tries not to think about how it’s an hour and a half away from Beacon Hills. Close enough to watch, far enough to not  _ **_be_ ** _ watched. _

_ Not that he’s watching. It’s easier if he doesn’t look. _

 

__ But one day, he does.  
  


* * *

 

_ The flowers sit in his passenger seat, and he stares at Lydia’s new apartment. It’s to her taste.  _

_ He’s proud of her.  _

_ She’ll have finished her first year of college by now. She’ll definitely graduate early.  _

_ His hand squeezes, knuckles white on the steering wheel of his generic looking car. He shouldn’t do this, but he does anyway.  _

_ He thinks about how they think he’s dead, the rumor spreading its wings to all the way out to reach him, hundreds of miles away. He hadn’t realized that the bumbling, human idiot in the True Alpha’s pack would have that much of an impact. Though, he supposes it’s his actions while he was ‘alive,’ that had the impact. No one cares about a sad boy who was loved by the greatest best friend and the most special girl in the world. _

_ He thinks about Lydia now. About how awful it will feel when she gets these flowers. How it will both revive her and destroy her. But that’s absolutely nothing compared to how it will feel when she first gets the flowers, and they keep coming. _

_ Stiles wonders if she’ll keep them until they’re brown and dying. He wonders if, even after their slow death, she’ll be able to throw them away. _

_ He wonders what she’ll do with each bouquet after. Maybe she will throw some away. But maybe she’ll cling to some because they’ll be what she needs at that time. Maybe their message sticks to that point of her life. _

_ And how many bouquets will she get? How many messages and memories? _

_ How many times will her stomach bottom out at the sight of beautiful, harmless flowers? _

 

_ He wordlessly leaves them at her doorway.  _

__ It is her birthday, after all.  
  


* * *

 

Lydia looks at him strangely when he turns down breakfast. Usually they head to the formal dining room where a lavish spread covers the entire table. Lydia drinks her coffee and enjoys fresh fruit. Stiles wolfs down anything in near vicinity of his seat.

Not today though. He’s not hungry.

“You feeling alright?” She asks, worry furrowing her brow.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “There’s something I have to do today.”

He loves that she lets him walk away. 

Loves that about her. 

Loves Lydia.

  
  


Stiles doesn’t mean to stumble upon it, but it happens anyway. One minute he’s wandering the halls, just trying to clear his mind, and the next he’s lost down a long, narrow hallway filled with portrait after portrait.

He’s used to seeing portraits of men. He’s not used to portraits of families, women, and children, peppered throughout, hanging in heavy wooden frames.

Stiles examines each Argent. 

They had lives of their own--families and stories, broken bones and hearts. Each and every one, a fleshed out, living person at some point in time.

He pauses when he gets to Allison’s. 

She doesn’t look at all like he remembers, but she’s unmistakable. She’s young. Maybe thirteen at most. It’s bizarre to think of her as young. 

Then again, she’s in trapped in amber in his memory. Golden and laughing and stuck. 

Eternally, forever, sixteen.

He doesn’t turn around when he hears Helena approach behind him.

“I called her my flower,” Helena says after a moment of silence. “Flowers are beautiful. But they can also be powerful, when they want to be. They can sprawl out...choke the garden...poison or grow thorns….Such is nature’s way. But they sure are beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, voice barely audible.

“A beautiful mess. So it goes, Mr. Stilinski. These things always seem to balance out in the end.”

“She was a good friend,” Stiles breathes, vision swimming. “She was a good person.”

Helena steps closer to him, until she’s only just behind him. They both look silently at Allison’s portrait. Solemnly, she places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” she says. “I think it’s time we had that tea.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your love and patience. Hope you enjoyed xx
> 
> -Maggie  
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


	14. Poppy (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy, or Papaver Somniferum
> 
> Sleep. Consolation for loss. Remembering the fallen.
> 
> Peace in death.
> 
>  
> 
> For My Mother.

The thing about the death of a parent, is that it leaves you with a missing limb. It leaves you with a shell. A body, walking around. Going through the motions of living.

Sometimes your head cracks the surface of the water, and you gulp in a breath so big it burns your lungs and stuns you senseless. You never realized you were even underwater until you see the sky for the first time.

The sky never lasts. The water does.

They had a raspberry bush behind their house. They’d pick raspberries and put them in pancakes.

She would pack his lunch every day. She had a sandwich stamp, and she would stamp ‘I Love You’ into the bread so he’d know. She’d write messages to him on napkins and he would always save them. He’d meticulously fold it into squares and put it in his pocket for safekeeping.

Raspberry pancakes never tasted the same afterward. He becomes scared to ride the school bus. He starts getting angry for reasons he can’t explain. He hates that all it takes is one condolence for him to cry. He’s tired of his response being, “It’s okay.”

Because it’s not.

There are no more handwritten love letters on a napkin. No more ‘I Love You’ stamped into sandwiches. She’s gone, gone, gone. And now there’s nothing but ugly separation. A hole in his chest that can’t stop growing. A missing limb. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. A puzzle piece no longer fitting.

He loved her so fucking much. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The sun is gentle when they have tea. Helena leads Stiles to a terrace overlooking the sprawling gardens. The flowers are all in bloom.

Stiles can now identify almost every single one. 

He knows their names. Both names. He knows what they’re supposed to mean. But in the end, all they are is flowers. So when Helena leads them to the wrought-iron patio furniture, he pretends not to notice the thatch of poppy flowers growing nearby, like droplets of fresh blood.

Helena’s already organized the spread on the table; a pot of tea and two delicate saucers and cups with gold inlay. There’s cream and sugar. Scones with fresh fruit and clotted cream and honey. 

In a daze, he pulls out her chair for her, and she gestures for him to take the chair beside her.

Then she pours him a cup.

“I’m glad we’re finally having tea, Mr. Stilinski,” she says, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her own drink.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods numbly. 

“It’s a beautiful day for a chat, isn’t it?”

Stiles looks around with glassy eyes. There’s a butterfly, fluttering near the lavender. He hears a meadowlark. Everything is so peaceful and soft and quiet.

Helena delicately pushes his tea into his limp hands.

“I know a true lady never reveals her secrets, but guess how old I am.” 

“...Huh?”

“Go on, guess.”

Stiles scrubs his palm on his jaw, trying to focus his vision and concentrate on her question. “Uhhh...sixty-two?” 

“Well that’s very flattering,” Helena smiles, taking a sip of her tea. Stiles waits for her to follow up with a response. It never comes.

Guess a true lady’s secrets remain unrevealed. 

She spins a spoon around her cup, counterclockwise. Twice clockwise. Stiles watches it like she’s conducting hypnotism. “I have to say, my dear. I may look young for my age, but you look very old. Especially around the eyes.”

He’s gotten that before. Usually people estimate his age to be pushing thirty. 

So he looks old. He  _ feels _ old. 

He feels like he’s lived a hundred lifetimes in the short span of twenty-something years. And he’s tired.

“Eyes are the window to the soul, and all that nonsense,” she says, sipping delicately. Stiles watches her pinky fingers extend toward the sun. “Can I tell you something, Mr. Stilinski? That nonsense, about eyes being the window to the soul? That’s true. And at my age, and in this line at work, reading people is a talent I possess. I have gotten very, very good at it.”

He swallows thickly, looking down at the honey colored tea in his tiny cup. 

“I saw something in you, when we first met.”

He waits for her to say, ‘darkness.’ He thinks of the nickname the druids gave him. He thinks of emptiness and sadness and black holes and everything that is doom and gloom and void. 

“Goodness.” Helena says, and Stiles’ head snaps up to stare incredulously at her. “Mr. Stilinski... _ Stiles _ ...I saw a trustworthy person. A person who is trying his best. A good person.”

It makes the breath whoosh out of his chest, and his eyes begin to sting but he can’t seem to look away from her face. 

“Y-you think...y-you see--?”

“No. I know it. I know it in my bones,” she nods sagely, and tips the tea pot to refill her cup. “I’m not saying you’re an innocent person,” she continues. “Nor am I saying you’re a person who has the greatest impulse control. But you’re a person who cares deeply. Almost too deeply. But that’s never been a sin. Caring about people...well that’s just about the highest form of Godliness in my book.”

There is a knot in his chest that tangles tighter and tighter with each word Helena speaks. And while he wants to believe in her words, and accept them completely, it’s just not true.

Godliness. 

There is nothing God-like about death. Or killing. 

Each victim, each body he’s left in his wake, was once a person. A child. Born from two people and raised with the expectation that they would grow old and happy and live long and fulfilling lives. But it never happened. It was cut short. He, Stiles, was responsible for that.

Helena continues and Stiles finds himself shaking his head, slowly at first, and then vehemently.

“No,” he says tightly. “No, no you’re wrong. I’m not a good person, Helena. I’m not--”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

He blinks. “No, not at all!”

“Then shut up and listen.”

Stiles shuts up.

“I’ve been through it all, son. I’ve seen wars and I’ve seen death and I’ve even met it on a few occasions. And here I am, in all my glory, having tea with a serial killer, and I’m telling you. You are a good person. You are also still a child. And you have time to overcome this.”

They stare at each other, expressions matching and brows bunched.

“You’ll get wrinkles, looking at me like that,” she remarks.

“Too late,” Stiles says tightly.

Helena smirks and pushes a scone to him. “Rhubarb. You’ll like it. It’s sweet and sour. Like you.” 

Stiles crosses his arms and turns to glare out into the garden so she won’t see his eyes water. A few minutes pass as Helena lets him stew in stormy silence before she breaks it. “What happened to you?”

Stiles swipes angrily at his eyes. He suddenly feels the urge to clam up, because whatever he went though, he’s certain Helena has been through it, tenfold. His woes seem to pale in comparison. 

“Here’s the thing about death,” Helena begins gently. “Everyone romanticizes it. They think death is slipping away peacefully. Or the ending of suffering. Death is a journey, death is moving on to a better place. I wish it were so. But you and I, we both know it’s not. There is nothing peaceful about watching someone die. It’s violent, and cruel, and traumatizing. And ultimately, there is no respite to be found.” She joins him, turning to look out into the beautiful garden. “I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it on a grand and atrocious scale, just as you have. But the cardinal difference between you and I, is that I’ve prepared for death my entire life. I grew up a warrior. You were just a child. And that, is very, very sad.”

A summer breeze picks up, and the flowers dance in it.

“Grief,” Helena murmurs, lost in her own thoughts, “Grief is the only thing that lives on after death. And it _ is _ alive, you know. It grows. You can’t stomp it out, you can’t bury it or run from it. You just have to live with it. It’s your own garden, Mr. Stilinski. You can let it overrun everything, let it go wild and sprout weeds. Or you can tame it. Visit it from time to time. Make it beautiful.”

She reaches across the table and clasps his hand in her own weathered one. Stiles takes his free hand and covers his twisting face.

“I’m sorry about Allison,” he chokes out.

“I am, too.”

“I’m sorry about everything.”

“So am I.”

“I want to get better. I want to do better.”

“I want that for myself, as well,” Helena says. “I want that every day. I’m still working on it.”

Helena gazes into the garden. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut behind the palm of his hand. They grasp the other’s hand so tightly, like if they let go they’d both fall away. 

“There is no rhyme or reason to the universe. It may feel like it’s out to get you. It may beat you down, but ultimately, things will always swing back to the middle.”

“My best friend always says that.”

“It’s true.”

“What do I do now?” Stiles says.

He can hear Helena smile through her voice. “It’s your garden, Mr. Stilinski. You decide how to live with it .”

 

* * *

  
  


Stiles finds Lydia in a random hallway in the Argent mansion after he’d been wandering for hours following his conversation with Helena. She smiles at him down the hall, sashaying with a coffee in one hand and lab notes in the other.

“Hey!” She greets him. “If you want, I thought we’d--”

He cuts her short, throwing his arms firmly around her and burying his face in her neck. Lydia stiffens before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. And he doesn’t care that people filter in and out around them, gaping at the bizarre way they’re hugging so tightly in the middle of the hallway. He holds on tight; he doesn’t let go.

It feels too good.

 

* * *

 

“Did I ever tell you about that time I broke my arm falling out of the tree in Scott’s backyard?” He asks. Lydia shakes her head and continues to run her fingers through his hair. Stiles nuzzles further into her shoulder, and she wraps her arms tighter around him. Their entwined legs shift on the bed. 

“We were climbing and the branch broke, and I fell. It felt like I was falling forever,” he says, smiling into her skin through the painful recollection. “We both heard this  _ snap _ , and I was screaming before I even felt anything. We were like, eight or nine, and I was dropping the F-bomb everywhere, and Scott never even said words like ‘stupid’ or ‘shut up’ because Melissa told him it was bad language, so he was like, in shock.”

“Sounds like baby Scott,” Lydia nods.

“Such a good kid.”

“You sound like an awful influence.”

“I kind of was.”

“What happened next?”

“Scott climbed down and yelled that he was going to go get help, but I screamed at him not to leave me.” They both grew silent. 

“...Did he?” Lydia asked.

“No,” Stiles said. “No, he promised he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.”

 

* * *

 

Lydia’s back moves up and down, in sync with her breathing. Stiles trails a single finger down the curve of her spine. 

“And then what happened?” He smiles.

“Well, I didn’t tell him it was octopus until after he finished the entire plate,” Lydia laughs into the pillow, and Stiles can see the corner of her mouth as she grins, and the crinkles near her eye. He tucks her hair behind her ear. 

“What kind of moron would believe fried calamari is french fries?”

“Hey! You and I both know Scott is brilliant.”

“He has his moments.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “You had fun in Italy though?”

“It was the best. We’ll have to go back sometime....the three of us.”

Stiles kisses her shoulder in response. 

 

* * *

  
  


“I don’t want to talk about the flowers,” Lydia says when her head is resting on his bare chest. Stiles strokes her hair and stares up at the ceiling. “It’s not that they don’t matter to me, they do. But you’re here now, and that changes everything.”

 

* * *

 

They used to want kids. They would talk about their wedding when they were too tired to be guarded. And, as it turns out, after being divided by another dimension, and then having the power of true love break through said dimension, there really was no hiding anything anymore. 

Stiles fantasized about having a family with Lydia almost every night. He did before he had Lydia, and even more after. 

There wasn’t a single thought that left him more breathless than the idea of being the father to her children. 

“I still want that,” he whispers into her forehead. “I’ve always wanted that. But now...I don’t know. So much has happened. I don’t know if I can get back to that.”

Lydia’s face is wet on his cheek. “I wanted that too.”

They lay in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Stiles thinks of the analogy of the bull in the china shop. The bull runs through, the bull breaks everything in sight.

He’d always likened himself to the bull, destructive and careless. Standing in the wreckage of his actions. 

But maybe Lydia was the bull. Lydia had always been the only solid certainty. Lydia had always had the power to obliterate his heart in one swift move. Lydia had always been stronger than him. Maybe Lydia was the bull, and he was the china.

Or maybe the bull was neither of them. Maybe the bull was life. Maybe that’s just how it goes. Sometimes life is the china, and sometimes it’s the bull, and things just happen. And the only certainty is that eventually the bull gets tired, and when it does, they just have to wait it out to pick up the pieces.   
  
 

* * *

  
  


Stiles tells her everything. He tells her about his first kill, and Maurice, and what he did in those lost years without her. She tells him everything too. How she feels, what Scott is up to, and how her world looked post-him. 

They laugh hard, they cry harder. They hold each other so tight, like if they tried enough they’d fuse together into one single, complete person. 

He tells her he wants to get better. He tells her things will be different. And, for the first time, the words aren’t empty promises. He didn’t choose for Lydia to actively come back into his life, but she is. 

Through all the heartache and chaos, he was given this. It’s a second chance, and he’s going to fucking take it.

Stiles made his bed. He’s going to lie in it. 

He’s not afraid.

 

* * *

  
  


Somewhere between dusk and dawn, between stories of childhood and confessions of the recent past, they must have fallen asleep. 

They both stir when Lydia rolls in his arms to face him, faces touching.

“Hey, Lydia.” He croaks out.

“Hey, Stiles.” 

And then they’re kissing slowly. Deeply. 

He can’t keep his eyes open for it, even though he wants to. He wants to commit it to memory, this moment in time where they’re lying in bed, and for the first time in so fucking long, everything feels okay. 

It doesn’t feel like a dream, or a delusion, or pretend. It’s real. It’s tangible, and it’s here and now. It’s him, Stiles, and her, Lydia. Them. Together. And they’re going to get through this. They’re not just going to survive, they’re going to prosper. 

It’s going to get better. They’re going to be better, so long as life gives them the chance.

He can see it now; sitting on a front porch, old and indescribably content, with Lydia by his side, and their grandkids playing in the yard. Old and happy and so fucking normal. 

Stiles wants normal. He wants normal for both of them, and he wants it so badly his soul screams for it. 

He’s going to kill The Collector. And then he’s going to give her normal.

Lydia kisses his eyebrow, around the shell of his ear. She brings up a hand and pushes his face into her, mushing her lips into his cheek with a spectacularly sappy sound, and he grins.

She props herself up onto her elbow, and gazes down at him. He can see her smile, soft and warm in the dusky, periwinkle light of their bedroom. He brings his hand up and cups her face, and brings her to him, slowly. Reverently. 

 

His arms wrap around her frame, pushing and pulling her hips like waves, or gripping the back of her neck to support her. Their lips never leave skin. 

“I love you, Stiles,” she tells him. “I love you, I love you.”

She rides him, sitting in his lap, rocking back in forth, and there’s no rush. There’s no frantic energy that previously plagued moments like this. 

It’s as if they have all the time in the world. And they will.

He’ll make sure of that.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your endless patience and constant support. I can't tell you how much it means to me. 
> 
> You might notice this chapter is not as long as a typical one, and I apologize. Poppy (Part II), was particularly bittersweet for me to write. It was both cathartic and daunting, and as stated in the prologue, it's for my mother, who's birthday would have been April 25th, this week.   
> The first part is for me. The rest is for Stiles.   
> (I'll spare my mom the smut, okay).
> 
> My beautiful betas:   
> Thank you Jade, I LIVE solely for your reviews. Y'all think I'm kidding. Her words are actually my air, water, food, shelter, etc.  
> And Rachel, who is in the middle of vacation with her family and still edited for me???? What?????? I don't deserve you????????
> 
> And last but not least, my co-author. My Rachel.   
> You've supported me and built me up through every piece of this writing process. Thank you for being my rock, always.


	15. Nasturtium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasturtium, or, _tropaeolum_ . 
> 
> Battles and long journeys. 
> 
> Victory. 
> 
> Courage, strength, passion.

Her skin is paler than Stiles'.

Granted, they're both pale, but there's a part of Lydia that had always believed Stiles to be made of paper— paper that was so thin it was almost see through. That's why he wore his heart on his sleeve, because anybody could see it beating underneath the sheath of paper that covered his chest anyways, so he might as well wear it.

His heart isn't on his sleeve anymore. But hers is now. She can do that for him— she can give that to him. He did it for her for years of their lives, and now it's her turn to make him feel how he had always made her feel: safe. Loved. Understood. Seen. Inspired.

Something akin to giddiness consumes Lydia as she stares at her hand where it rests on Stiles' heart. She's just woken up, nuzzled into his chest, moving with it as he breathes. His face is half covered by her hair, her leg hitched up near his hips, and Lydia thinks to herself that they're _messy_.

She's only ever been able to be a mess around Stiles. He takes the pieces of her that she thinks are frayed and he puts his love into them and Lydia had never even _showed_ them to the other other men in her life. Instinctively, she had known that she could trust Stiles. So he sees her messy, and she lets him teach her that mess is pretty.

They're a good team, Lydia decides.

Her teammate is currently dead to the world, so Lydia ignores the ache between her legs for the time being— it's his job to take care of that now, and she's feeling lazy this morning. Instead of paying it any mind, she presses a kiss against Stiles' sternum before backing off of the bed. Eyes still on Stiles, Lydia drags the covers off of his body, leaving him entangled in the sheets. Then she tugs the duvet around herself and drifts out the French doors which lead to the balcony.

She's been trying to paint out here every day for a week. They've been at the Argent mansion for too long, and Lydia's mind had been wandering during meetings about the budget for their project. She'd been ignoring the speakers in favor of daydreaming about art class with Allison. She'd thought about the low, melodic sound of Allison absently humming along with the music, and the way she held her brush so delicately, like it was the end of an arrow. She'd thought about Allison with her hair pulled up so that it wouldn't get in her way as she scrutinized Lydia's art and asked, one long night when they were working on a midterm, when Lydia was going to take a risk.

Even then, Lydia had known that Allison wasn't talking about in her art. And she wasn't talking about Aiden either. But Lydia hadn't wanted to hear what her best friend was saying.

She listens now, though. She sits on the stool that's set up in front of her aisle, letting her fingers slide over the brushes until she picks one. She squeezes paint onto her palate, barely paying attention to what colors she's using. Then she looks up at the world, at the garden that lays sprawling out in front of her. Lydia waits for the resentment against flowers to curdle in her stomach, waits to feel bitter and sour and angry.

Instead, she dips her brush in paint and begins painting.

By the time Stiles lumbers sleepily into her vicinity, winding an arm around her neck and dropping a kiss on her head to let her know he's there, she's covered in the colors of the flowers that had broken her heart every day for six years. The duvet had long ago slipped from Lydia's shoulders and is pooling around her waist. There's green on her breast and yellow on her arm and blue splattered over her heart.

She knows he's looking at the painting. She knows he's looking at the flowers.

The words crawl up her spine before he even has the chance to say them.

"What happened? The… I mean, the first time you got a bouquet."

Lydia sets down her paintbrush, mashing her lips together as she considers how to answer him.

"I cried," she says honestly. Stiles says nothing, so she continues. "It was… it was insane crying, Stiles. It felt like screaming. And then by the time I finished crying, it didn't feel like anything anymore."

He untangles himself from her, walking to the edge of the balcony to wrap his knuckles around the thick black railing that winds around their room. Lydia watches his bare back move up and down with his breaths before he speaks again.

"You moved around a lot."

"You kept finding me."

Stiles sinks to the ground, his spine sticking out against his skin as his shoulders hunch forward. She wants to kiss every notch. She wants to paint every vertebra. She wants to cover the moles with the pads of her fingers until his skin has erupted into goosebumps around her.

"I didn't… I didn't want to be like everybody else, you know?" His voice is meek. "I didn't want you to… god, Lydia. I couldn't fucking stand the idea of you thinking that I left like everybody else did. Your dad; Jackson. It… it almost made me stay, thinking about you thinking of me that way."

"But you _did_ leave."

For the first time, her voice isn't accusatory. Her hair is blowing slightly in the breeze, fluttering against her shoulders and down her naked back. The garden is filled with colors but she is more interested with how breakable Stiles' skin is.

He's so human.

"I left Beacon Hills. Not you." The conviction in his voice resonates through her. Lydia waits for him to explain. "I didn't want you to think that I was forgetting you, that I got over you like it was easy… like I moved on. I didn't want you to think that I didn't love you anymore."

"Even though you knew it would hurt?"

He's silent.

She wonders how much he's warred with himself over that exact concept.

But Stiles is sitting at her feet, and every bone in his body is hers. Every piece of him is dedicated to saving her life. And in the end, despite how angry she'd been all these years, despite how _lost_ she'd felt, she's able to recognize how rare it is to be loved like that. How rare it is to find a person who takes your heart and embeds it into their soul without asking for you to do the same.

So she slips off of the bench and crawls onto the floor with him, draping the blankets around the both of them.

"Do you still hate flowers, Lydia?" asks Stiles.

"No," she murmurs. There's white paint on her fingers. She presses them into his cheek and strokes her thumb just under his eye. "They've grown on me."

* * *

There's a crumpled piece of notebook paper at the center of the table. Isaac has been blowing on it for the last thirty minutes, his eyes bored as he stares at the crinkled ball. With his fingers balled into a fist that is pressed against his cheek, his position mirrors Lydia's almost exactly. The room had emptied of Argents hours before, but Stiles is still standing at the head, tapping his foot anxiously against the floor as he scribbles on the whiteboard.

"That won't work," Chris says. His voice, although not as bored as Lydia feels, is equally irked. She has a feeling he's simply gotten very practiced at patience, seeing Stiles every day this last month.

Stiles turns around, a barely discernable pout on his mouth.

"Why not?"

"Not enough people," Chris says. "Too offensive of a tactic considering the fact that they're built to handle something like this."

The corners of Stiles' lips turn down, and he turns back to the board with a look of consternation tugging at his features. Lydia knows that he's been on offense for the past six years, and she understands that— she does. But she trusts Chris enough to know that, if he says something won't work, it simply won't.

"Let's try again tomorrow," suggests Isaac hopefully. "Everybody else left ages ago."

"Because they're ninnies," Stiles mutters under his breath, eyes scanning the board. "I'm telling you guys, the Kira plan is our best bet."

Lydia sighs.

"So you've said."

"How can you be so sure?" asks Chris. "What if there are protections against her powers that none of us know about? We know that The Collector has access to kitsunes."

"But we don't know if they know that _we_ have access to a kitsune," Stiles all-but growls.

"They know Lydia's a part of Scott's pack," reasons Chris. "And they have intel on Scott's pack."

"But Stiles said that they weren't looking for Scott at the party. He wasn't in danger. Maybe they don't know as much about him as they do Lydia."

"I haven't worked with the pack in years," Lydia admits. She feels a small sense of shame steal over her, but she avoids it by looking at her fingers. All ten of them, laid out on the table, none of them graced by a ring from a man she doesn't love. She'd never put it on. She'd never said yes. It's _okay_. She looks up, voice stronger as she speaks again. "After Stiles left, I decided to focus on... other things."

"What she means," Isaac says, looking at Stiles, "is that she cut herself off of everything supernatural because it reminded her of you."

"Yes, I'm aware, _thank you_." The annoyed response causes a tense moment between the two of them before Lydia finally decides to cut it off.

"What's done is done, and we need to be careful of how much information they have about Scott's pack and contacts," she says evenly.

Stiles could spend the next six years and beyond stewing about how close she'd gotten to Isaac, but Lydia isn't going to validate it. They'd ended up where they had last night because they'd finally, for the first time since they were eighteen, decided to really, truly grow up. Lydia doesn't feel trapped in the stagnancy of bitterness anymore. Stiles has made the active choice to not suffocate himself in his choices.

It feels like they're fighting for their future now. Not just her life. The difference is staggering and breathtaking and beautiful, making Lydia's toes curl under the table.

"And if we keep acting so careful, we're going to be stuck planning for months," argues Stiles.

"Is that so bad?" asks Lydia, trying to keep her voice as gentle as possible. "Stiles, we're safe here."

When he turns his eyes on her, she sees it in his defeated gaze. She sees the pout on his lips, the annoyance that turns his eyes to slits, the frustration that weighs down on his eyebrows. It suddenly becomes so clear to Lydia that there's another reason Stiles feels to antsy, so desperate.

He wants to go home.

She softens immediately, helpless under the comfort of the realization, and a small smile stretches its way across her features.

"What?" asks Stiles, suddenly unnerved.

"You're very cute," replies Lydia. Across the table, Isaac scoffs. Lydia ignores him in favor of watching Stiles' cheeks turn that ruddy red that she can barely remember from high school. He grins at her. She smiles back.

"Find out about the security through your contact." Chris' voice is stern but calm. He tucks his papers back into a leather folder and leans back to stretch. "I'm going to give Helena our final numbers for the budget tomorrow."

"We still need to take an inventory of what weapons we're bringing with us, yeah?" asks Stiles. "I can do that tonight. I'm not tired."

Lydia imagines a distinct picture of fourth grade Stiles whining that same phrase towards his father and bites back the urge to tease him about it.

"I'll wait up for you," she tells him, snapping a picture of the whiteboard on her phone before she moves forward to erase it. Stiles kisses her on the cheek quickly before he leaves the room, his feet lighter against the carpeting than they have been in ages.

For several minutes, Lydia forgets that she isn't alone in the room. She erases the words on the board and thinks about how pleasant the voices in her head are tonight. There's a hum of energy from them that she hasn't felt in a long time. Tonight, they are not unwelcome background noise to her life. Tonight, the voices are not a headache that drives her to uncertainty and agony. Tonight, the voices in her head remind her of how much life there is in the world.

If they can take down The Collector, Lydia can keep living among them.

"So." Isaac's voice cuts through the voices, loud almost to the point of insolence. "You guys figured it out, then."

It's not a question. Lydia doesn't treat it like it's one.

"We decided to," she tells him.

Isaac is silent, thinking about this. Lydia feels his fingers wrap around her wrist, stopping her from doing her task, forcing her to look at him.

"Listen. I… I know you've always loved him, but I need you to think about what it was like when he left." She looks up at Isaac, at the earnest expression on his face, at the worry in his eyes. And she would feel grateful for how much he cares about her if all of this didn't feel completely ridiculous to her. "You were a mess, remember?"

Lydia's mind wanders back to this morning and the way she'd acknowledged how messy they are. It hadn't made her fall apart. It had made her smile.

"I'm never not going to be messy, Isaac," Lydia says quietly. "We got so broken as teenagers, and I know I thought I was never going to be okay for such a long time. I can't blame Stiles for thinking the same thing and acting on it, especially when I'm _still_ not sure. Some days I wake up and feel like I'm stretching wrong in my skin, but Isaac, ever since he came back… I've never not felt like myself. Does that make sense? I don't know who I am anymore, but I know that when I'm with Stiles, I'm me."

Isaac hesitates.

"And if he leaves again?"

He's so serious. It makes Lydia wish that she could communicate to him how steady she feels right now, but she can't. That's for her. That's for Stiles.

"If he does, then at least I'll know that I loved him believing that he wouldn't. I'll know that we tried our best."

"You trust him," infers Isaac flatly, just as there's two knocks at the doorway to the room. Stiles' head peers around it, eyes bright with excitement.

"Hey!" he says. "You know what I was thinking?"

"What?" asks Lydia.

"We should go to the Natural History Museum tomorrow. You wanted to, right?"

"You know we'll be there for hours and you're going to be bored out of your mind, right?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Wear jeans. Then I'll have my own art to look at."

"Is that so?" responds Lydia, well aware of the teasing lilt to her voice. Stiles winks at her and vanishes from the entryway to the room, leaving behind a longing tug in her stomach to follow him. "Yes," she says, turning back to Isaac. "I trust him."

That's why she's keeping him.

* * *

Scott's eyes are worried as they search Lydia's face.

He's got his brows knitted together sweetly as his gaze sweeps all the way over her, drinking her in. Lydia, for her part, is trying not to make it so obvious that she is doing the exact same thing. She's lit only by the screen of her phone, seated on the floor of a musty-smelling hallway deep within the Argent manson. Scott, on the other hand, has all the lights in his clinic on. The round overhead light that swings over his table illuminates his head as if it is a halo. In the background, Lydia can hear the distant sounds of dogs and cats, but she doesn't pay them any mind as she drinks in her best friend.

"You look happy." It's the first thing Scott says. He's got his elbows on the silver table at the center of the clinic and now he leans forward on them happily, as if his toes have just lifted from the ground slightly.

"It's because I'm talking to you," Lydia replies fondly. When he grins, the lines from his smile stretch so tall that they almost kiss the mole at the side of his eye.

"How are you doing?"

"Mmm, first things first, McCall. Been on any dates lately?" He rolls his eyes and then casts them downwards, causing Lydia to let out a small noise of indignation. " _Really_?"

"Wait, how is _that_ your 'first things first?' Lydia, there's people who are trying to kill you right now!"

"You should be more worried that Stiles and Isaac are going to kill each other. I, on the other hand, am under lock and key in this big old house."

"Except for the time you and Stiles went on a date."

"Well… yes."

"And the time you two snuck out to see a movie."

"Also yes."

"And the time you two—"

"I get it, Scott," she says, cutting him off. He grins, smug. "How do you even know about all that?"

"I talk to Mr. Argent every Sunday night whenever he goes to France. You know, so he doesn't feel too lonely."

"And Isaac?" asks Lydia knowingly.

"I mostly get furious text messages from him about Stiles' behavior."

"Mhm. Naturally."

"Did you know that Isaac took Stiles golfing?"

Lydia raises her eyebrows.

"And he didn't club him to death?"

"No!" replies Scott enthusiastically. "There's hope for them, right?"

"Oh, absolutely not," affirms Lydia. "Truly, no chance, Scott."

"You'll see," Scott says decisively.

She will never have the ability to understand that type of optimism. Lydia hasn't been truly optimistic since middle school. Any delusions of the world being a beautiful place had been thoroughly vanquished when she had realized it was merely a game to be conquered. And, yes, kissing Stiles had made her piece slide off the board. He'd woken her up; broken her out. But she's never quite been able to re-capture the optimism that comes with ignorance.

With Stiles gone, being the balance that counteracted Scott's hope had felt far more punishing.

"You'll see for yourself as soon as we can get out of here." Lydia knocks her head back against the wall, ignoring the annoyance creeping up at how trapped she feels. "And, can I just say, I'm going insane waiting for all of them to make their official decisions? It's driving me crazy."

"If you're going crazy, I can imagine Stiles is even worse."

"Every time it seems like one Argent is about to hit a conclusion, another Argent goes 'oh no wait, what about this?' and the factor creates chaos. Or, you know, Argent chaos. Which is highly functional and polite chaos."

Scott is beaming at her when she finishes her rant, the chuckle already at his lips as soon as she's done.

"Sounds like exactly your kind of chaos."

"And how are things going on your end, despite the hold-up over here?"

"I've managed to contact everybody on Chris' list," Scott tells her. "It took ages to track down Ethan, but I found him eventually."

"Where was he?"

"Hanging out with a pack in Dubai."

"Sounds just like him."

They're silent for a few moments as Scott attempts to put some words together, trying to figure out what he wants to ask.

"They're going to let you come home?" he says. "Right?"

"Scott. Of course."

"After we get The Collector?"

"Before," says Lydia firmly. "I made it clear that I was going to be a part of anything that happens." Scott opens his mouth to argue. "It's not negotiable, Scott."

She's surprised that she hadn't had the same fight with Stiles. Then again, he's been sparring with her every day, working her extra hard as she tries to implement new fighting skills. She's been learning what it means to fight dirty, and she can tell that Stiles is glad for it— he doesn't hold back as much as he did when they first got to the mansion. They practice shooting, they practice hand-to-hand, and they work on using her powers in a concentrated, offensive manner instead of just for defense.

He acquises more quickly than Lydia would have expected, his mouth snapping shut.

"I just want you to be okay," he says softly.

"I want you to be okay too," Lydia tells him. "Which brings me to my next point."

"Yeah?"

"Just because I'm okay with Stiles right now, doesn't mean you should be."

Scott blinks.

"What?"

"It took me a long time to decide that I was ready to forgive him, and I may be with Stiles but that doesn't mean that you have to just automatically be fine with what he did."

"He was in pain."

Scott says it, but it doesn't sound like him. It sounds like an actor who has been forced to learn his lines without knowing their context.

"We were _all_ in pain," Lydia reminds him. "Scott, Stiles loves you _so_ much. As much as you love him. But that doesn't mean you need to forgive him right away."

His hand comes up to cover his shadowed face, hiding his expression from Lydia.

"I don't know," he says uneasily. "Wouldn't it be better to just forgive and forget?"

"He was gone for six years." Her voice wavers slightly. Lydia wishes that the hallway was brighter so that Scott would have something to focus on aside from her voice; she doesn't want him thinking _this_ of her. "There isn't any forgetting." He's still hesitating, so Lydia offers him a sad smile and shakes her head at him. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just… need you to know that you have the option to be mad. Stiles will understand."

Scott blinks when he hears his best friend's name, and for a moment, Lydia waits for him to tell her what he'd reacted to.

"I only really saw him for a second," begins Scott, not looking at Lydia. "Is he… is he Stiles?"

She cringes, her heart slipping downwards.

"I don't know how to answer that," admits Lydia. "Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't."

"Is it like… you get glimpses of who he used to be?"

And maybe it had been that way before, but he's become cohesive in her mind in so many ways. Lydia swallows down the lump of emotion in her throat, mostly for Scott, but also for Stiles— for the trust that they have built back up together.

"At first it was like that," admits Lydia. "But now they've fused together in my mind and it's like… it's like he becomes more himself every day, but I don't know if that's because he's changing or if it's because I'm changing."

Scott nods, his eyes getting a little watery.

"I wish you could come home."

She knows it comes out more of a whine than he wants it to. She _also_ knows it seems like a non sequitur— but it isn't. Lydia is changing and Scott isn't there to see it or help her if she's moving in the wrong direction. As awful as the world was when the moon had gone dark six years ago, now that she's halfway across the world, the sun is gone instead. And Scott McCall has always illuminated the best in Lydia Martin.

"As soon as I can get to you, I'll be there," she promises.

"And you'll hold me back in case I want to punch him?"

She lets out a laugh that is far too giddy considering the question, just considering the idea of the two of them being in the same room again. Her best friends.

Lydia has a feeling Scott won't be very surprised when they finally figure out how to break it to him that they're back together.

"Just don't break his nose. It's his only redeeming quality."

They talk until Lydia's thoughts feel lighter and her fears seem smaller. She tells him she loves him when they hang up and thinks, walking back to her room, that the last time it was this uncomplicated to tell someone she loved them, that someone was Allison.

As she turns the door handle to hers and Stiles' suite, she finds herself wondering if loving him could ever not be complex. How do you find simplicity with someone who is made of heavily knotted pieces of yarn that are inexplicably tangled with yours?

Stiles answers the question without Lydia having to ask it.

He is lying on his stomach on their bed, hair wet from the shower, body bare to her. Stiles is using her book as a clipboard as he scribbles on a piece of notebook paper with the pen that Lydia always keeps in her purse. When she gets closer, she spots water droplets falling onto the page where Stiles is furiously writing what looks to Lydia like a list.

"What's that for?"

"Shit we gotta get taken care of— security, mostly. I'm trying to problem-solve early so that I have solutions when the Argents come up with fifty billion _more_ obnoxious questions."

"That's fine, but I was actually referring to your naked ass," Lydia says as she slides onto the bed with him.

He looks up at her and shoots her a crooked grin, inching forward on his elbows and stretching up to kiss her chastely.

"I figured I'd just make things easier by not putting clothes on."

"Easier for whom?"

"For me. To get laid. I was actually planning on seducing you with helicopter dick if the whole being naked and in love with you scenario wasn't effective."

Sitting at the head of the bed, Lydia tosses her hair over one shoulder so that it's out of her way when she leans over Stiles' notes to look at what he's written. There isn't any color coding, no red or green string, but she can still make out the pattern of the way his mind works as the list flows all across the paper. There's things that seem obvious, things that never would have occurred to her, and too many question marks to count.

It's smart. It's insightful. It's purposeful. It's _hot_.

Stiles watches her reading the list for a moment before he apparently decides that staying still is no longer in the card. He shifts on the bed so that he's on his back between Lydia's legs, hitching them over his shoulders and letting her heels rest on the bed beside his waist. She absently strokes his cheek as she finishes reading the list, not paying him any mind until he lets out a soft sigh and kisses the part of her inner arm that is closest to him.

"I called Scott."

His expression doesn't change, but his hands find her legs and wrap around them, rubbing lightly, up and down.

"He's good?"

"He wants me back home," Lydia says, voice filled with humor. "And I know you want to go home too."

He screws up his face into a grimace, his hands no longer caressing her legs.

"Everyone's gonna be so mad at me."

Lydia leans over so that she can look him in the eyes as she asks him the question that has been on her mind for a few days now.

"Are you nervous?"

Stiles closes his eyes. Licks his bottom lip. Breathes.

"Yeah."

"I'll be with you the whole time."

"But everybody's going to be mad at me."

"True."

"Is going home going to be like losing everybody I love _again_?"

That, she can answer with certainty.

"No."

"My dad—"

"Has never stopped loving you and never will. You're his _son_."

Stiles shakes his head, eyes still closed.

"No. Not anymore."

She thinks back to the words of the man whose blood is on the dress at the bottom of her suitcase. " _You didn't just drop from the sky, or crawl out from hell, which is more likely if you ask me. You gotta be somebody's kid. Someone's son. Poor parents. To have a kid like that. Walking around dead behind the eyes. Parents would rather he be dead than wander around, bleeding out everywhere. Bleeding others out to match."_

"Stiles," she murmurs, sliding her hands down his chest. "You were never The Dead Son. And you don't have to be now." His breath is shaky as he expels it from his body. She moves her other hand to his heart, feeling it beating too quickly underneath her. "Shhh," Lydia says soothingly, and when that doesn't help, she moves lower to kiss him, her nose brushing against the freshly shaven skin on his chin.

His heart slows down. There's a silly smile on his mouth when she pulls back.

"It could be okay," he says, not seeming like he's speaking to her or to himself in particular. "Maybe."

"Well, not everything," says Lydia, sliding her hand down his chest again, letting her breasts brush against him as she teases her fingers along the top of his abs. "There is a very real possibility that my mother will never let you into our house again."

"We'll be fine. We can go hook up in the lake house," Stiles suggests confidently.

"Um, Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"We're grown-ups who can buy apartments."

He pauses.

" _Right_."

They make eye contact. Lydia breaks first, bursting out into laughter. Stiles follows, his mouth hanging open wide as he throws his arm over his chest.

Both of them laugh until her stomach aches. As she bends over to kiss him upside-down, her hands sliding down his chest and towards his bare hips, Lydia thinks that loving the moon is the best ache she's ever experienced.

* * *

"Is it weird that I'm nervous?" asks Isaac. He's leaning over Stiles to get to Lydia, acting as though Stiles isn't there. Lydia can't help herself from smiling at the look on Stiles' face, complete with flared nostrils and a turned down mouth.

"No," she whispers back. After all, they've graduated from conference room to the assembly room, which is large enough to hold the entire Argent clan. The seats are uncomfortably full, and Lydia has the distinct impression that they are being very carefully watched. "Are there usually this many people in meetings?"

"I've been living here since high school and this has happened, like, four times, tops." Isaac turns around in his seat, looking at the rows of Argents in chairs behind them. "I think it's because they're still not sure what they think about Helena's integration plans."

"She seems respected," points out Stiles, looking irked. "Why wouldn't they trust her?"

"It's not that they don't trust Helena," Chris says, speaking out of the corner of his mouth from where he sits next to Lydia. "It's more that they don't trust the ideals that weren't ingrained into them when they were growing up. Not all of them had experiences which were as life-changing as my experience in Beacon Hills."

"There's only one Scott McCall," Stiles says fondly. The hand that's resting on Lydia's thigh rubs a distracting circle under her skirt and paying attention doesn't seem to be in the cards anymore. She zones out instead, losing herself in the quiet mutterings around the room and wondering which voices are friends or foes. She would ask Isaac what he was picking up, but he looks nearly as distracted as she does. Lydia wonders if he's learned to distance himself from all of it at this point— after all, he's been here for years, starting when the murmurings must have been must louder.

"Hey, it's starting," Stiles says, nudging Lydia's knee with his hand. Both of them watch as Helena walks up to the podium, looking across at the Argents with an expressionless face.

It goes exactly as Chris says it would. Helena introduces him. The Argents listen politely as Mr. Argent moves through the powerpoint with their plan on it. He outlines budgetary needs, weapons, the dangers of the chemical, and the nitty-gritty of the details that their team has been working on for weeks. At the end, as promised, Chris asks for questions and answers them swiftly and specifically. Lydia expects something to stump him, but nothing ever does. They've worked _hard_ on this. Strategically, this is a sound concept. They can do this. As the questions continue to fire through the auditorium, Lydia becomes more and more smugly confident in their ability to pull this off.

So, yes, all of it goes _exactly_ as Chris says it would, until he calls on a woman with blond hair cropped harshly against her skin.

She stands up, her voice ringing loudly and clearly through the room. "You've already told us that the weapon isn't lethal to humans. I don't understand why we have to help."

"Thousands of sup—"

"I understand that it'll kill supernatural creatures," the girl replies, cutting him off. "What I want to know is why we're fighting against that instead of working with it."

Next to her, Stiles' body tenses. Lydia slides her eyes sideways to see Isaac's claws scratching against his leg. She knows that he has a relationship with Helena, knows that Helena is fond of him. But the intolerance that Isaac has spoken so little of is suddenly evident in the unsettled looks on the faces of many members around the room.

"If we're going to be spending this much money and resources on something, shouldn't it matter?" pipes in another Argent, a man this time.

"Uh, it's people's lives, of course it _fucking_ matters," growls Stiles. Simultaneously, Lydia and Isaac yank him back down as he makes to stand up.

"The world _would_ be a safer place without supernatural creatures." This voice is reticent, which Lydia takes to be a good sign. At least this woman has it within herself to feel guilty. That's always a bonus.

"But supernatural creatures are human as well," a younger boy interjects. Many Argents turn towards him, and his cheeks stain red. When he glances over at Lydia, she offers him an encouraging smile and nods at him. Encouraged, the boy begins to speak again in his lightly Irish brogue. "It's our responsibility to protect human beings, yes, but supernatural creatures, like werewolves, have all of the same emotions as humans do. They're aware of their own consciousness. They're not this inexplicable _other_ that we can't control. They can be reasoned with."

"Not all of them can. And some of them refuse to comprehend logic."

"Some of _you_ don't talk to them right!" Stiles replies, frustrated. "Werewolves aren't bad people."

Lydia glances at him curiously, noting the emotion in his voice. She wonders if he's thinking about Maurice, about the pack that was his family for an entire year. He'd told her that they were the reason he was still alive, and based upon the anger in his tone, she can tell just how true it is.

"'We hunt those who hunt us,'" quotes the first girl who had spoken. "There isn't anything in there about saving the lives of those who hunt us."

"That's _quite_ enough." Although she doesn't have a microphone, Helena's voice carries through the room. Her usual placid tone has been replaced by something louder and stronger, and it's almost _eerie_ , how quickly people's mouths snap shut. Helena steps out of her large chair at the side of the platform and crosses it to get to Chris, taking the microphone from his outstretched hand. He steps back into the shadows, letting her speak as her piercing violet eyes look out at the crowd. "You know as well as I do, as well as _everyone_ in this room knows, that our code has changed. We don't do things that way anymore."

When Lydia looks over at Isaac, she sees his eyes slitted in enjoyment as his mouth curls up to the right. She is forcefully reminded of the fifteen-year-old boy who was discovering his ability to save himself after being the hunted one for so long.

"The downfall of this program will be our belief that we need only care about ourselves and our own personal interests. But balance is a necessity. When the world tilts one way, the universe tilts it the other way, and we meet in the middle. Despite this chemical, there will _always_ be supernatural creatures on this earth. There will also always be people trying to kill them. And then there will be people, such as ourselves, who are organized enough and powerful enough to know that we can make a difference whichever way we choose. And as the head of this family, it is my will to choose the way we lean." She pauses, fixing the crowd with a sweeping, searing look. "I've been here longer than most of you. I've watched destruction and death and degradation. And I know, perhaps better than all of you, that there is enough about this world that is broken without us adding to that mess. There is never a necessity to be cruel."

Helena lowers the microphone slightly, and when she speaks, the intensity of her words carry across the crowd without its help.

"'We protect those who cannot protect themselves.' This includes werewolves—" She gestures towards Isaac, "banshees—" She nods her head towards Lydia, "— and humans whose intentions deserved to be honored." Helena's gaze falls upon Stiles. "Like his," she says, then pauses. "Like Allison's."

The room is still silent.

"Christopher," Helena says, taking a step back and handing the microphone to Mr. Argent. "Your question will be presented based upon the standard of your daughter's code, not the original Argent code. Feel free to call the vote when you feel that this is understood by all those eligible to cast their vote."

Then she crosses the stage and sits down in her chair again.

Mr. Argent clears his throat and addresses the crowd with a far steadier voice.

"All in favor," he calls out. Stiles' hand dives for Lydia's and squeezes tight. She closes her eyes, listening for the voices that leap together in the crowd. "All opposed." Her body sags in relief as she hears how quiet it is, and Stiles' hand holds hers even tighter.

"We did it," he says, a little faintly, as Chris wraps up the meeting.

"We did it," agrees Isaac, giddy. "Holy _shit_."

He looks over at Stiles. Stiles looks at him.

"Good job," Stiles says begrudgingly.

"You too," Isaac grumbles.

"You guys should hug," suggests Lydia. Both of them turn to her with equal looks of disdain on their faces. " _Kidding_."

She's just as giddy as Isaac is, truth be told. The lesson that Allison had learned by losing her mother, by being manipulated by her grandfather, by having a ruthless, psychopathic aunt— the one which she had carried with her to her grave— is going to be the same lesson that saves thousands of lives.

"We'll go home tomorrow," Chris says, stepping off of the platform and approaching the three of them. "I'll have some of the kids with the right clearance level help me put the weapons in the jet tonight so that we can leave in the late afternoon."

Stiles elbows Lydia.

"Did you hear that? He said a _jet_."

"I did hear."

"That's, like, a private jet."

"No, I got that, Stiles."

"You know, Lydia, I do like being a member of organizations," Stiles starts, sounding thoughtful.

Lydia takes the bait, waiting patiently for the punchline.

"So…?"

"So I've _always_ wanted to join the mile high club!"

He's still staring at her with a victorious look on his face when Chris clears his throat.

"So. Anyways. Tomorrow, we'll head for home," he tells them before walking away, going to shake the hand of one of his affiliates. Isaac wanders off, leaving Stiles and Lydia standing in the center of the room, watching everyone else.

"Home," Stiles says suddenly, something strange in his voice. She looks up at him to see a twinkle in his eyes. "Home?"

"Yes," Lydia says slowly. "Beacon Hills. You know… the place we grew up together?"

She's teasing him, and she certainly doesn't expect Stiles to close his eyes for one long moment before opening them to hers, a beam finding its way onto his lips.

"Lydia," he says, voice cracking a little bit. "We're going _home_."

* * *

To Lydia, home seems to have been having a bit of an identity crisis lately.

She's been off of American soil for such a long time that a part of her feels like she should know exactly _where_ to be homesick for. The condominium which she's been living in for a year? The house in which she grew up? Stiles' bed, where she spent most of her teenage years? The big, comfy armchair she likes to sit in at Scott's house?

It's not that Lydia has ever been unmoored— she certainly hasn't felt that way since sophomore year of high school. But when she tries to picture home, she doesn't see anything but a soft, fading yellow behind her eyelids. Instead, the attempt usually conjures a feeling that flits from her stomach to her chest to her throat, lifting her somewhere. Home feels like standing on bare tiptoes and waiting to be hugged. Home feels like someone bringing her tea when she was too lazy to get up. Home feels like that feeling one gets when they decide to go out into the warm rain and let it pelt their clothes and skin; like there's nothing to lose in the world because she's making the _choice_ to become dripping wet.

But if home is just a feeling, what exactly is it that she's flying back to?

"What do you picture when you think of home?" she asks Stiles, turning towards him. He's perched on the buttery leather seat next to her on the couch, his shoes kicked off onto the floor of the plane.

"You," he says simply, not looking up from the game that he's playing on his computer. Lydia fights the urge to roll her eyes at the simplicity of it all.

"So after you left, and before you came back, you hadn't felt like you were at home in six years," she replies skeptically.

"Uh, yeah." The reply is scattered as Stiles presses the spacebar multiple times and slides his tongue out between his teeth. He doesn't look up to see the face she's making, which Lydia supposes is for the best. She's having one of those moments where it _hits_ her— how hard it must have been for Stiles to walk away. And while before, she had felt nothing more than anger, now she only feels the fierce urge to protect the small eighteen-year-old who had walked away from her.

"So if I told you to close your eyes and picture home right now, you would think of…?"

"I had these flashes of you that I used to conjure up." He finally pauses the game, only so he can pull her hand off of her lap and put it in his, studying the way their fingers lace together. "Like, when I wanted to remember you but also didn't want to remember you, y'know?" Lydia simply nods. "The crinkle at the corner of your eyes; the way your lips move when you smile; the back of your head walking down the hallway at school." He shrugs. "It's probably fucked up, but sometimes I needed it."

"It's not fucked up," she responds, tender. "I think it's more fucked up that I don't picture anything at all."

"I'm more of a visual learner than you are," Stiles points out, unpausing his game and going back to it. "With you, it's like… you need to understand something, and then it's yours to keep. With me, I just see something and connect it to an emotion. Get it?"

Lydia frowns.

"Yours seems easier."

He laughs.

"Well, I'd rather have your brain any day of the week, thanks."

She nods, still feeling a little unsettled by the entire concept of getting on a plane and flying back to the country of her birth and not truly knowing where to go. The condo that she hasn't had for very long? Stiles' house? Scott's house? Her mother's house? They're _options_ , but they're not definitive.

"I just… I wish I pictured my bed. Or something like that."

"Maybe you can't picture it because you know it's not permanent."

He's reaching over to unscrew a bottle of Bailey's as he says it, pouring it into the cooling coffee that is settled on the table next to Stiles' laptop.

For a moment, her stomach plunges, and she doesn't know why. Lydia snatches the bottle out of Stiles' hand, holding it out of his reach as he looks up with indignance.

"Explain, o' wise one." There's something biting to her words that neither of them are expecting. Stiles sighs and closes his laptop, turning to face her on the couch.

"I guess maybe you never really put down roots, you know?" He says it like it's obvious and Lydia takes a moment to think about how odd it is to be _taught_ something, for a change. This is different than him showing her how to use a gun or helping her with hand-to-hand. This is a subject that Lydia is supposed to be an expert in and has somehow never quite gotten the hang of. "Nowhere's ever felt like home because you've never intended to stay anywhere forever."

When she was eighteen, she'd had roots. She had intended on staying with Stiles forever, a silly, hopeful fever dream that she had come to depend on in a very short amount of time.

"I don't leave." Lydia's voice is cold and flat. She's not sure which word the emphasis is on. She's not sure which meaning she wants it to be.

"People leave you, though," says Stiles. "And that's never been your fault, Lyds. No matter what you think. It's not your fault."

She's alarmed to feel her body un-tensing as Stiles brings her hand up to his lips and presses a kiss on her palm, his lips careful.

"So what happens now?" asks Lydia, her words quiet and hesitant.

"So," Stiles responds, eyes meeting hers insistently. "So what happens is that we kill The Collector. And then we put down some roots."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of those of you who are suffering through finals, you can _do_ this. For those of you who finished, congratulations. You made it. For those who are having proms and graduations-- have fun. Make memories. Don't make it all bigger than it has to be. And for those of you who are doing literally nothing... samezies. I promise it's okay. I hope you have a great week. 
> 
> Thank you to Maggie for being the sexiest bitch alive, to Jade for being the funniest bitch alive, and to Rachel for being the most Lydia-Martin-literate bitch alive. Sorry for calling all of you bitches. I wanted to say "chick" but it didn't seem to have the same oomph. Seriously, though, thank you for making writing this fic even MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE of a pleasure than it already is. 
> 
> And to you, the fandom who has been so creative with art and videos and edits and gif-sets... every single one of them is our favorite thing in the world. We watch the videos over and over, we save the art to our phone, we share the gif-sets with our friends. You brilliant, creative human beings make being in fandom so much fun and we will always be so grateful to you for your comments and your creations ALIKE for making us feel loved. 
> 
> Can't wait till y'all see where the story goes next. Anybody been missing Scott? Stiles definitely has. Hmmm...
> 
> <3 Writergirl8/Rachel/Rongasm.


	16. Anemone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anemone, or Anemone Hupehensis
> 
>  
> 
> Fragility.

There is a distinctive shift in the air when the coast of California materializes in the thick window of the jet plane. Stiles doesn’t have to be supernatural to feel it. It’s tangible. He nearly chokes on it. 

Looking around the luxurious but small cabin of the plane, he sees it on the faces of the others as well. It’s in the crease of Chris Argent’s brow. The crushingly somber look that slaps itself on Isaac’s face and refuses to leave. The way Lydia’s breath hitches at the sight of it.

_ Home _ . 

They, Stiles and Chris and Lydia, have been living in California for years. They own houses there— property and jobs, and they’ve established lives. But to Stiles, it feels like it’s been an eternity that they’ve been running around Europe and the greater western hemisphere. 

Besides. California hasn’t felt like home since it rained six years ago.

He leans across Lydia’s lap, ignoring her grunt of protest, and pushes his face against the glass, palm flattening and stretching to fill whatever is left. 

“...What do you see?” Lydia asks, her breath brushing the shell of his ear, despite her earlier annoyance. 

“It’s more like, I’m trying to see something that’s not actually there yet,” Stiles murmurs, eyes scanning the parched landscape. If he squints hard enough, maybe he can see the town, hundreds of miles in. The town his father lives in. The town where he fell in love with a girl and almost lost his best friend in the middle of the night under a full moon and a starless sky.

“We’re not even close to Beacon Hills yet, numbnut,” Isaac chimes in from across the aisle, though his words sound half-hearted and already hollow. 

Stiles draws back from the window and wraps his elbow around Lydia’s neck and shoulders, pressing his face into her hair.

“It’s going to be fine,” she tells him, and he groans into her locks. “Scott’s going to meet us at that cafe you used to like.” Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he chooses to close his eyes and rub his nose along the tip of her ear and down her neck. 

A bell dings and a voice comes over the intercom, letting them know their landing ETA is only thirty minutes away. 

There’s a part of him that knows he’s returning to something that might never take him back. He’s returning to a home that was never kind to him, never gave him a break or showed mercy to anyone he loved. 

He’s returning to the aftermath of his actions. The fallout; the lost years when it was all fog and desperation and so much emptiness it swallowed everything. 

And yet...there’s still that flicker that’s been burning from some time now. The same small light that sparked when he saw a woman in a white dress at a party she was never supposed to attend. The light, gently kindled by countless fights, and the feeling of her skin on his. The sound of Scott’s voice over the tinny reception of his disposable phone on a train to London. 

It’s hope. 

Hope, nurtured by Helena’s guidance on a summer day. The support of Chris Argent and the promise of  _ Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger leurs-même,  _ and the way Lydia, despite it all and unfathomable as it may seem, told him she’s in love with him. 

There is good in this world yet. He wants to see it. He wants to heal his garden. He wants to love it, protect it, water it . 

Watch it grow. 

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia and Stiles stand solemnly in front of the cafe where they’re meeting Scott,  while Isaac sits dazed and glassy eyed in the passenger seat of Chris’ car. 

“We’re gonna get set up at my place. We’ll rendezvous back at Scott’s house later tonight,” Chris says, elbow out of the rental car window. Stiles watches Isaac, his face quartered and head resting on the windowpane. 

“We’ll see you later,” Lydia says. “See you later, Isaac...alright?”

Isaac doesn’t speak. 

Chris gives them a look, and the three of them communicate without words. Isaac hasn’t stepped foot in the states since...well, since Allison. Yet here he is, and he’s doing it for them, because, miraculously, time and space hasn’t dulled his loyalty a single iota. 

“Hey,” Stiles hears himself saying, and it sounds sharp in the late afternoon sun. “Numbnut.” Isaac doesn’t move his head, but his eyes do flicker over to Stiles’. “You’re a goddamn pain in my ass and I owe you. Thanks, man.”

Isaac nods his head, Chris’ lips quirk, and then the car peels away from the curb and it’s just Lydia and Stiles once more. 

“Come on,” Lydia says after a while, taking his hand and leading him to an outdoor table. She orders them water and an appetizer because he hasn’t even cracked open the menu. He can’t stop pulling at the frayed lip of the baseball cap on his head, and looking around at the town that was once so familiar to him.

It still is, truthfully. It doesn’t quite feel surreal, or like it’s a bad dream, the way he expected it to. Instead it feels like rediscovering something, like a favorite pair of sneakers, long lost, but fitting just the way he remembers.  

He’s stretching out, adjusting to this new sensation, when a shadow is thrown across the table, and then there he is.

Scott McCall, in all his beautiful glory. His best fucking friend in the whole goddamn world. 

Stiles can’t help his mouth popping open. Sure, he’d seen Scott that night of the party, when they’d had no idea what they were crashing. And sure, he’d spoken to him briefly on the phone; asked Lydia mundane little questions about how he was doing. But that was nothing compared to the sight of Scott towering above him, looking heartbreaking in a button down blue shirt, skin golden and eyes cracked wide open. 

Stiles waits for the blow, for the cool indifference, or, the more realistic option of the three, for the hurt.

He waits for Scott to break. But Scott doesn’t. 

Stiles does. 

His hand goes to his cap, jutting it down harshly until it cuts across his vision, and ducks his head, staring at his feet. Stiles has mouthed off to assassins and pack leaders and was tortured by nightmarish creatures, and never once had he broken eye contact.  _ Ever _ . 

It’s totally a cowardly move, but he can’t find it in himself to care. It’s instinctive. He’s blinded by his shame, by the white hot light of either the sun or Scott. They’re practically one and the same at this point. 

“Stiles,” Scott says, and something in his voice shatters. 

“Scott--”

“No, c’mon, it’s okay--”

“Scott, please just... _ please _ just let me fucking get this out,” he begs, and he hates that it’s on his terms, always on his terms, but it needs to be said. “Please, just...fucking punch me or something, okay? I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that...any of it...it was so fucking...I fucked up and I’m a garbage person and you’re my best friend in the entire universe and I left you and let you shoulder the weight for everything and I’m fucking sorry and you shouldn’t have to put up with that and you don’t have to forgive me for anything because I don’t--”

He doesn’t get to finish his insane, guilt-ridden rambling, because Scott just flings an arm around his shoulder and squeezes, and he’s sniffling into his neck, and it’s not fair that Stiles can put him through this and Scott gives him nothing but love in return.

“I was planning on punching you, honestly,” Scott chuckles wetly, “I had planned out what I was going to say. I thought about this moment in my head like, a thousand times. But...when I saw my best friend, all I just wanted to do was tell him I missed him. Guess I couldn’t change how I feel, even if I tried.”

And honestly, what on earth compares to Scott McCall?

Across from them, Lydia smiles, tears running silently down her cheeks. “Well,” she grins, looking deliriously happy, “Shall we order, then?” 

 

* * *

 

 

They’re each two beers deep when Scott drops the sage wisdom that they’ve never drank together before. At least, legally, and in the daytime. Stiles drums his hands on the table and points at Scott, currently grinning and simultaneously stuffing a burger in his mouth. 

It’s great. They’re eating, drinking, and they’ve yet to bring up anything close to the mounting threat that is The Collector. It almost feels like it has to be this way. They’ve missed out on six years of companionship, after all. There’s a lot to catch up on. Kind of.

Stiles already knows the majority of it.

“I took Lydia to her first baseball game three years ago!” Scott says excitedly.

“I know,” Stiles replies.

“Oh. Uh...I received my Master's with honors and did free work in the Appalachian mountains for a group of underprivileged farm--”

“Buddy, I know.” 

“Well...did you know--”

“Yup,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p.’ 

“Huh. Guess you were never as gone as we thought you were.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

“You could’ve at least radio’d us in, you know. Maybe told us to go on a wild goose chase, visiting a ghost town…”

Stiles laughs and adjusts the lip of his cap. “You never tried to reach out to me through hypnosis…”

“Tear a rift through time and space with the power of true love,” Lydia says casually, cheeks pink and chin in hand. Stiles turns to look at her, and her eyes dance as they smile at one another.

“...Oh my god,” Scott says lowly, and both turn their attention to him. “Oh my god...you two had  **_sex_ ** !”

He says it loud enough for the group of elderly women sitting behind him to stop their conversation and turn with raised, judgemental eyebrows. Scott winces and flashes them a crooked smile and they all swoon and his previously crass admonishment suddenly turns into an endearing explicative.  

...Stiles had given them a tight lipped smile earlier and they glared at him. It’s fine.

Lydia, for her part, flushes completely scarlet, yet somehow manages to roll her eyes at Scott.

“Congratulations. You figured it out.”

“I mean, I know you went on dates in France, and you guys spent an awful lot of time together, but….” Scott trails off and gives a sheepish shrug, but his face beams so bright and sincere Stiles can’t help but beam back. 

“Okay,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes, though now she too is smiling. “You can wipe that shit eating grin off your face, Stiles.”

“What shit eating grin?” Stiles says, still smiling at Scott, though now he reaches out to her hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss. 

It feels like senior year, eating in the courtyard in the sunshine. It feels like Scott laughing with a mouth full of food at a tactless joke Stiles told, while Lydia rolls her eyes and tries to hide her smile. 

Old shoes, still fitting.

 

* * *

 

Scott drives them to the Stilinski home. When he pulls into the cracked pavement of the driveway and cuts the engine, Lydia gracefully excuses herself and lets herself inside with the key Stiles gave her the morning after he returned from the Ghost Riders to Beacon Hills. 

He still remembers it, how he squeezed it so tight it cut into his palm as he walked down the hallway to her locker. The gesture itself, somehow more momentous and intimate than the night they’d just spent together, mapping each other’s bodies. Reveling in skin on skin; words, more breath than voice, mumbled into wet lips. 

He and Scott watch as Lydia lets herself into the home he used to live in, knowing that his father is returning from work any moment now to see Stiles, his son, for the first time in six years. 

“You kept your promise,” Scott says as Lydia’s head disappears behind a closed door. 

“Of course. I’ve always wanted her safe. I’ve always wanted both of you safe. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“That’s all I ever wanted too,” Scott sighs, hands dropping from the steering wheel into his lap. “I remember laying awake at night and running through my list of people, wondering if I missed anyone. Wondering if everyone was safe. And even when, for one of those brief moments when we all were safe, even when we were...it felt unreal to me. It felt wrong. Like if I thought so much about them that I forgot to eat, and I stayed up all night, lying awake until my eyes burned, someone would be ready, just in case,” Scott says. And when he turns to face Stiles, his gaze is so wet and raw and hungry it wrenches at Stiles’ insides.

“That’s the thing about love, Stiles. Even when things are good, there will never be a single moment when someone isn’t hurting. You know when you’re so happy, it almost feels like sadness? When something is so beautiful, it just...guts you? That’s love. That’s also just life. Life aches. It just fucking does. It does for everyone. And it doesn’t matter where you run to, because it will follow you, so you need to just...lean into it. Just swallow it down and...fucking ride it.”

Stiles nods, blinking and breathless, and unable to look away from the desperation in his best friend’s eyes. 

“I needed you, Stiles. We all did. And you needed us too.” 

“I did,” Stiles croaks. “I did need you. I always have.”

And that’s the thing about the pieces Stiles finds himself in. Shattered completely, but with the promise that he can rebuild himself. He can pick himself up, and use the pieces of Scott. Of Lydia. Of his father, and the pack he abandoned. 

Who knows. Maybe it’ll be stronger than before, now that there are different broken shards to use. Maybe it will look beautiful in the end...the kind of beautiful that hurts. 

 

* * *

 

 

When his father walks in the door, he just stands there with his hands by his sides, gaping. Scott and Lydia slip out of the room, quietly excusing themselves to give the two of them a moment of privacy. 

Stiles thinks about the man he tortured, who told him about his nickname, The Dead Son. About how his family must wish he were, because Stiles is bleeding out everywhere, so much that it chokes and consumes everyone in his wake.

“Dad,” he breathes. And it’s a beat of silence before…

“Son.”

Stiles has never felt more alive.

His dad can’t stop clapping him on the shoulder, or squeezing his arm as he brushes by to open the cutlery drawer in the kitchen. It’s like he can’t believe Stiles is standing in front of him so he needs to make sure he’s physically tangible, his hands giving him more proof than his eyes. 

Stiles leans into every touch, relishing the feeling of security. He’s touch-starved, he realizes. 

The first time his hands brushed Lydia’s skin in six years gave him the same sensation. Sure, he’s been in the presence of other people. He’s felt his knuckles brush the sandpaper-scrape of facial hair on a jaw as they collide. He’s run his fingers along the smooth skin of a naked body. 

But it’s different, somehow. It never provided security; a guarantee, a surety. It wasn’t love, even when sometimes it felt like it. 

Sometimes his muscles strained under the swing of his arm, and teeth would imbed in his hand, and there would be red everywhere and it felt a lot like love. 

Sometimes the naked body would use the same shampoo Lydia used in high school, and goddamn, that felt like love too.

Stiles looks over to Scott, sitting next to Lydia on the couch as they wait for the Chinese delivery, and watches as he makes a joke and nudges Lydia’s shoulder with his own as they both laugh, and that feels like love. 

Scott said love is paradise and pain, so tightly intertwined that sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. 

Stiles has a lot to learn. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Lay low,” Scott tells them as they escort him to the door to say goodbye for the night. “The Collector knows we’re on the offense now, but we still aren’t prepared to make a move. It’s only a matter of time before they know you’re back in California.” 

Lydia nods and stretches onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and he bends to meet her, extending his face forward. 

If Stiles were the same Stiles he was in high school, he might’ve felt the annoying sting of jealousy; an internal papercut. But he doesn’t. Scott loves Lydia, Lydia loves Scott, and they both grew together, without him. 

He’s glad.

“We’ll be careful,” Lydia says, squeezing Stiles’ hand by her side. “What time did Chris and Isaac say they’d arrive tomorrow?

“Nine in the morning, sharp. The whole pack is meeting us as well, and we’ll go over the plan,” Scott says, and leans over to Stiles to throw his arms around his shoulders. “Glad to have you back, brother.”

“Good to be back,” Stiles sighs into him. “Gonna miss you already.”

“Hey,” Scott laughs, pulling away. “I had to deal with that feeling for six years. I’m entitled to make you pine for a few hours.”

“Yeah, well. I’m still looking forward to tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Scott nods. “Liam’s bringing coffee and donuts.” And then he throws them both a glowing smile, and makes his way to his car.

Stiles and Lydia watch until the headlights turn the corner and disappear. 

 

* * *

 

 

They say goodnight to the Sheriff and make their way upstairs. Stiles is breathless when he opens the door to his bedroom, and stays breathless even after he takes it in.

It’s exactly the same. 

Same posters, same homework he never turned in, littering the floor. 

“He wanted to leave it all the same, but he washed your bedsheets, and your dirty laundry about six months in. It was starting to smell,” Lydia says, and he should laugh but he can’t seem to manage. 

“Yeah,” he gulps. “I suppose that jockstrap was getting pretty ripe for a while.” 

Lydia takes his hand and steps through the doorway, navigating him through the carpeted landmines of memories to his bed that still squeaks when you sit on the left hand corner of it. 

“Why did he want to leave it the same,” Stiles asks when they’re facing each other on the bed, knees touching knees. “Why keep it this way?”

Lydia is looking at his hands, toying with them in her lap, tracing his pointer finger with her own. 

“Well,” she begins, and licks her lips, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He wanted it to be how you left it, for when you came back.” And then she looks up, meeting his searching eyes with her own. 

Stiles swallows hard, and leans into the feeling of his heart swooping into his stomach. He left his father completely alone, but his father always knew he’d come back. 

Love that hurts.

Stiles brings a hand up to cup the back of Lydia’s neck and brings their faces forward together, closing his eyes and pushing his lips into the skin of her temple. 

“You know,” he says when they part, both of their eyes glassy. “You were probably the last person in this bed with me.”

“I should hope so,” Lydia huffs, thickly. 

“I mean, you were always in bed with me, even before you were my girlfriend.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah. It was three’s company. You, dream-Lydia...me, and my right hand.”

“Perv,” she laughs, and throws her arms over his shoulders. Stiles grins and wraps his around her waist, and they fall slowly down, stretching across the dark checkered pattern of his bedspread. 

Lydia’s legs are tangled between his, their arms pulling the other close, forehead to forehead and nose to nose. Stiles can’t look away, her green eyes glowing in the dark. 

“I feel a lot like dream-Lydia right now,” she murmurs into his mouth. “Like this is a dream that I “Because it’s real.” don’t want to wake up from.”

“It’s even better,” Stiles smiles, kissing her softly and mumbling his next words into her lips. 

Lydia slides across his body, pushing closer. Her breasts squeeze against his chest as she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses her way up his jaw.

Her hand snakes between his legs, palming his hardness beneath the scratch of his jeans, and Stiles sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

Lydia sticks her tongue out and runs it along the vein that travels up the length of his neck, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

“Fuck, Lydia,” he whispers into her hairline. “Fuck you’re amazing.”

Gently, she unbuttons his pants, and together they slide them down his legs, kicking them off the bed. Stiles ducks his head into her collarbone, and kisses his way down her chest. His fingers dip under the soft fabric of her shirt and he peels it off the curves of her body, and it joins his jeans on the floor. 

“You need a haircut again,” she chuckles breathlessly as her fingers twist in his hair. He stretches his hand between her and the mattress, unsnapping her bra as his other hand rubs over the wet fabric of her underwear. 

She arches her back, turning her head to the side and grinning into his bedsheets.

“Feel good?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “So good, Stiles. Always so good.”

He’s certain nothing will ever look as perfect as Lydia Martin laying in his bed, bare skin bathed in moonlight. It’s heavenly. 

Tenderly, he dips a finger into her center, and her legs fall open further, her body encouraging him, wordlessly. He pumps his index finger in and out of her, chastely kissing her cheek. It feels sticky sweet. Unhurried. Mushy. He wants to take care of her. Take her high, ride her out low. Their skin is pressing together, bodies touching in every place. 

When Lydia keens low and long, he asks if she wants to sit on his face. 

“Yeah,” she nods, and he helps her sit up, body trembling already. “But I also want you in my mouth too.” 

The compromise is this: Stiles props himself against his headrest as Lydia sprawls across his chest, her head resting on the sensitive skin of his thigh. 

“Take your time,” Stiles sighs between broad licks between her legs, eyes closed in bliss. “Lydia, you don’t have to. I just want you to feel good.”

Lydia kisses his thigh in response, and flips her long hair over one shoulder, kissing the tip of his cock. 

They take their time, just wanting the feeling of the other on their tongues, filling their mouths. They alternate between sighs and moans, between squeezing their eyes shut as the other tries to dominate and take over, and flipping the table, power flowing from one end to the other. 

Stiles squeezes her ass and spreads her fully. He can’t stop his hands from running down her legs, down her ribs, dipping and rising like piano keys beneath his fingers. Her hair tickles his legs, her spit runs down his testicles, her hand pumping him generously. 

They bring each other to the edge over and over, climaxes rising before they have the chance to fall.  

“I love you, Lydia,” he whispers it, and then licks his lips to taste the words. “I love you so much.”

It makes Lydia pull up, and she un-straddles herself from his chest, turning around to sink onto him. 

“Hnng,” he groans, and Lydia’s breath is lost somewhere in the air between them. 

“I love you too, Stiles,” she murmurs with hair hanging in front of her face, and her eyes closed. He raises a hand and pushes the strands away. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Stiles wraps his arms around her and pulls her down on top of him, unable to stand even the minimal space between them. 

Love is this, he thinks. Love is wanting someone so close that it’s never close enough. He wants to sink into her. He wants their bodies to fuse together, melding until they’re inseparable, like emotional tethers and anchors and the shattering of different time and space dimensions are child’s play. It’s never enough. 

“God I love you,” he groans into her ear, and he feels her wet cheek on his own “I love you, oh god, I love you.”

“I know,” Lydia voice breaks and trembles. “I know.” And both crumble, finally falling over the wave they hadn’t let themselves break. Stiles pours himself into her in every way, and she takes it all, giving and taking, giving and taking. 

“You shouldn’t love me,” she says like a secret as they’re both still shuddering, barely there. “You lost your mind, loving me. You shouldn’t love me.”

“Yes, I should,” Stiles says from a far away place, arms tight around her middle, eyes closed and still thrusting into her. “I can’t stop even if I wanted to.”

“Maybe you should stop,” Lydia whispers. “You left. Maybe if I leave, it’ll heal you. It might help you. I don’t know how you can come back from this…how you can get better if we’re in this deep…”

Stiles doesn’t have time for her words to register, because then there’s a frantic pounding of the front door that echoes from downstairs. 

They both freeze, eyes snapping open wide to stare fearfully at each other, and then they rip apart, Stiles jumping out of bed and grabbing her shirt from the floor. Lydia lifts her arms and he pulls it over her head as fast as possible, untucks her hair from the the collar, and grabs her hand, tearing out of the room and down the stairs to answer the door. 

The Sheriff swings open his own bedroom door, bleary eyed and gun in hand. 

“Stiles,” he calls down. “Stiles, what’s going on?”

Stiles doesn’t respond, only rips the front door open to reveal Scott, his fist still raised to knock, with shoulders heaving and eyes streaming.

“Oh my god,” Lydia sucks in a breath behind him. “Scott, are--?!”

“They took her,” Scott wails, pushing his way past the doorway into the house, and everything is razor sharp and spinning wildly and Stiles realizes he hasn’t  _ breathed _ since he left his bedroom. 

“The Collector took my mom.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got back from crying my way through Wonder Woman, and now I have some wonder women of my own to thank. 
> 
> Jade, Rachel, Rachel, I love you I love you I love you. Thank you for putting up with my confusing word structure, flowery smut, and constant tardiness.
> 
> That goes for you, the reader, as well. I've been running on empty this whole month, and your patience is so greatly appreciated by me. Thanks for letting me put the needs of my little preschoolers first on this one. 
> 
> Much love,  
> Maggie 
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


	17. Hazel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel, or _corylus._
> 
> Reunion and reconciliation.

The beauty of Scott McCall is that he still falls apart every time he loses someone.

After they'd brought him back to the McCall house to look for clues they knew wouldn't be there, he'd been strangely silent. He'd stopped sobbing eventually, and Lydia would like to think that it's because he can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but she knows that's not the case.

There's nothing they can do now anyways. Nothing to do but wait.

They sit with him in his bedroom, flanking either side of him like they're his bodyguards as the three of them wait for the sun to rise. Stiles has his hand on Scott's right shoulder, Lydia's hand is on his left knee, and the absence of Melissa seems to be sitting in the room with them, her hands the weight that presses down Scott's shoulders.

He carries the world on those shoulders, uncomplaining. He braces himself against the world and lets it brutalize him in the name of saving other people. She's never once heard him utter the words "it's not fair" in these last six years, but that's the phrase that swims around in Lydia's head as she stares blankly at the wall of Scott's childhood bedroom.

It's not fair that The Collector is going after her and had kidnapped Melissa to get to her. It's not fair that everyone Scott loves gets taken from him in some way or another. It's not fair that the best person Lydia knows is constantly being terrorized and has to pretend that it doesn't hurt.

_It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair._

She remembers the years after her father had left their family, when her mother had decided to rediscover religion. She had dragged Lydia to temple on Yom Kippur, and Lydia had been bored out of her mind until the rabbi had begun the avinu malkeinu prayer. For each and every sin he spoke of, the congregation had curled their hands into fists and beat the sin against their chests.

Lydia remembers slamming her closed fist against her chest harder and harder each time, hammering her faults and flaws and sins into her chest, her eyes pricking with tears.

At that time, she hadn't had that much practice pushing things closer or taking them to heart. She hadn't spent much time pressing the hurt against her chest and fitting it inside of her body. Lydia had watched her father walk away with a sense of faultlessness about it, because it was easier than the way she felt like she couldn't breathe when she blamed herself.

Her mother become bored with temple soon after Lydia had her bat mitzvah. Temple wasn't a quick fix. They stopped going when she was fourteen. She pretended to stop taking things to heart even as they were pounded into her body by her own fists.

Even now, she doesn't believe in God. She does, however, believe in sin. She believes in the universe not making sense, but doing so in a sensical manner. She worships at the altar of human error and human life and human nature.

For the better part of a decade, Lydia has been beating other people's lives into her body as their prayers whispered through her brain.

But nobody's prayers, not hers, not Stiles', are more important than Scott's.

She wants to tell him that everything is going to be okay. She wants to answer his prayers immediately. She wants to burst into the lobby of Valetudine and scream until people's brains melt out their ears and they eventually give up where Melissa is being kept captive.

She wants to weaponize herself to save Scott. She wants to do _exactly_ what Stiles did.

"You're not gonna become like me," Stiles whispers, and at first Lydia startles, thinking he can read her thoughts. But then he continues. "You're not going to lose her."

Oh.

Scott's expression, which had been struggling to remain passive, suddenly crumbles. He buries his face in his hands, back shaking. Earlier that day, they had been sitting at a table in a cafe ,laughing and relearning how to be around each other. As Stiles squeezes Scott's shoulder and Lydia places hers on his back, she thinks, dryly, that it is tragic that loss is what sets them back in motion— sets their friendship right again.

"Stiles," Scott says, sounding broken, but Stiles shakes his head.

"She's not lost. She's not gone." He pauses. "Scott. There's _hope_."

Lydia's throat tightens. She leans her forehead against Scott's shoulder as he cries, letting out a few shaky, shuddering tears herself. Because this moment, when they have just said hello again, could also so easily be a goodbye.

She's missed Scott. She's missed their easy friendship, the loving faith he's always given her, the kindness rooted within him that had taught her so much. She's missed the life they've made together in the absence of Stiles, and ever since she had made the choice to trust Stiles with her heart again, she had believed that the three of them would end up exactly where they were supposed to be— together.

But Scott McCall is the brightness in the world; he is the hero that cannot have a tragic ending. So if giving him his mother back means that he won't have to have one, Lydia will do anything to get her for him. Even if it means giving up a life with Stiles— a life full of _feeling_ to the fullest. Sbe and Stles could have years of fighting and kissing and talking and teasing and fucking. They could have all of that.

She's spent these last six years emotionally shut down to everything, but he came back and filled her all the way up with love and anger and she'd had to redefine what it meant to love someone so that she could include forgiveness in her definition. When they'd been in high school, Lydia had thought that the way Stiles loved her was the bravest thing in the world.

Now she knows that she's brave too.

"There's always hope," whispers Lydia.

But there are different types of bravery, aren't there? And Scott has always proven that to her, just by being himself. So she's going to give him back the life he deserves— she's going to choose him over herself _and_ over Stiles, if it comes to that. They'll be fine. They have each other, her boys.

Stiles and Scott, just the way it was at the very beginning.

* * *

"When's the cavalry descending upon us?"

The screen door bangs against the doorframe of the McCall house as the sheriff's wry voice finds Lydia's ears. She gives him a small smile as she accepts the mug of tea he offers her, not knowing how to tell him how much it means to her that he knows how she takes it without having to ask.

"Tomorrow, nine sharp," Lydia tells him as he settles next to her on the porch swing with a small groan, a mug of his own resting on his knee.

"And why are you out here alone?"

"I decided to let frick and frack have some time to themselves. It's been awhile." She hesitates, looking over at him to try to gauge his emotional state. "How are you holding up?"

Two weathered eyes meet hers, blessedly unlike his son's. She sees the exhaustion that she's been staring at for the past six years, but there's something else there too— a light behind his eyes that has been missing for so long now. It makes the icy blue seem to swirl like water rushing over pebbles in a creek. She's spent enough time with him to know that this twinkle in his gaze reveals contentment.

Lydia can't help it. She's happy for him.

"He's _back_ ," he says, the words coming out as a peaceful hum.

"He is." She's smiling, and so is he as she nudges him in the arm teasingly. "Has it hit you yet?"

"No," the sheriff says emphatically, then: "but yes."

"I get that."

"He looks… different."

"He _is_ different."

"You look different too." Lydia turns to look at him, curious. "You seem… alive again."

"Oh." She can't help but redden a little as she looks down at her hands. It tugs at her heart in a niggling, bothersome way that the resurgence of Stiles in her everyday life is what could make her seem _alive_.

"But we both know it's not just Stiles." The swing creaks pleasantly as the two of them rock it back and forth with their feet. The wind whistles playfully through the grass, rustling each individual blade. "You've always loved your job, loved Scott—"

"-Loved you," Lydia says quietly, and meaning it so deeply that it makes her chest ache. It's true. He's the best father figure she's ever had, if for nothing else than for the simple act of _staying_.

He smiles kindly in acknowledgement, but continues to speak as if she hasn't interrupted him.

"Stiles being back? It just makes all of that… richer, I think. You can enjoy life without feeling like you're missing a puzzle piece."

"Well, I'm done ditching our weekly appointments. Have you been eating kale while I was gone?"

"Absolutely not." She frowns at him. " _But_ I did go on a mean broccoli kick."

"Good enough," replies Lydia with some satisfaction.

"Lydia. I know our movie nights aren't the only thing you've been ditching." His tone has turned serious, so Lydia looks away from the chimes on the side of the porch and frowns up at the sheriff. "Have you been in contact with work?"

She exhales, a long sigh that causes the sheriff to raise his eyebrow in a knowing way.

"It hasn't seemed very important lately. On account of, you know, the whole 'I'm probably going to die' thing."

"You're not going to die," scolds the sheriff firmly. "Everybody who's coming tomorrow is coming to protect you. We're not letting you get away from us, Lydia."

"We were over there, and I was emailing work at first but… it was like another world, eventually. Like the forest in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , only I didn't really think about going back to society because the forest had _Stiles_."

"So you stopped?"

She shrugs, guilty.

"I lost track of it all."

"My son tends to have that effect on you, doesn't he?"

"Unfortunately."

"Good thing you have that effect on him too."

She smiles, even though she knows it.

"Oh yeah?"

"He's always been a crazy kid," the sheriff says fondly. His eyes dim slightly. "Well. I guess he isn't a kid anymore."

The sadness in his expression strikes Lydia in the gut. He'd missed _so much_ of Stiles' life— so much of his own son's growth. And the sheriff had never wanted that, or asked for it. Lydia had accepted a long time ago that Stiles leaving wasn't her fault, that she could never take blame for the sheriff losing a son. But she can empathize with the feeling of being robbed of something precious.

"He just takes some getting used to. Don't give up on him."

"Naw. I would never."

She wonders what it had been like when the sheriff was drinking every night, Stiles' childish chatter sinking to the bottom of a half-empty bottle of brown liquid. He'd missed some of the big stuff when he'd gotten lost. For a long time after Stiles left, Lydia had been actively, desperately attempting to be a replacement for the sheriff, just so he had something to wake up for— to stay away from alcohol for. Eventually she had realized that she didn't have to be that for the sheriff. That person was still— and would always be— Stiles.

Even in his absence, he'd been the thread that tied all of them together. Lydia and Scott, Lydia and the sheriff, Scott and the sheriff, Lydia and Melissa. She thinks that there's something amazing about the ability to love people so strongly that the vibrations of it shake through them even after you're long gone.

"I'll call work," Lydia promises. "If I make it out, I'll call them."

"No. Do it before."

"But—"

"Get your butt on the phone tomorrow morning," he tells her. Lydia sighs. "And… you might have to grovel a little bit."

"I know." She can't help the annoyance that comes out in her voice when she says that. The sheriff grins.

"That's my girl," he says, pushing off of the porch swing and ruffling her hair. Lydia wrinkles her nose in displeasure, which just makes the sheriff chuckle. "You know I love you for more than just the fact that you love my kid, right?"

"Right."

"I mean, that helps, but—"

"You're ruining it, Sheriff Stilinski."

"Alright, alright." He takes her empty mug from her and pulls open the screen door. "Don't forget to call your mom, kiddo."

It's a big universe. Lydia remembers that as soon as she's left alone with the stars again. But each and every single one that dots the sky is far away, and as _enormous_ as their galaxy is, sometimes Lydia thinks that the world is incredibly small, for her to have found a family in it.

And she will always be so fucking lucky to have stumbled her way to the people she loves.

* * *

Kira has taken it upon herself to provide the entire group with snacks.

It had been her "thing" in high school, of course, whenever they went on road trips or had pack meetings. Lydia had been the mom who scolded everybody. Kira had been the mom that fed everybody. Scott had done… well, just about everything else. For everyone.

But for some reason, Lydia hadn't been expecting it to translate to adulthood. While most of the members of the pack had kept on working together to fight against the bad parts of the supernatural and to keep people safe, Lydia had only intervened when Scott had asked her to. And he never asked, so Lydia had stayed away.

She'd fought so hard to shut herself down to Stiles, to fear, to joy— or maybe they were all one in the same. But that need to be detached, to feel nothing, had made Lydia miss out on so much. God. She'd had no idea that Kira still supplied the group with _snacks_. In a way, that's more unsettling than anything else about today.

Stiles had left the pack. But Lydia had too, and that hadn't been fair to them. She vows to apologize to them if she makes it out of this whole thing with her life and her freedom.

"So that's it, then?" Malia's voice is disgruntled as she takes the bowl of beef jerky that Kira has just handed to her. Her eyes, narrowed in distrust, do not move away from Stiles. "We're just going to forgive him?"

"We're all going to forgive him on our own schedules," Scott says firmly.

"But in the meantime, we're supposed to _help_ him?" Isaac interjects. Scott, Lydia, and Stiles turn to him simultaneously, mutual looks of disbelief on their faces. "Just stirring the pot," he says happily, popping a piece of trail mix into his mouth.

"I second the question," replies Cora, looking up and down Stiles suspiciously. "How do we even know he's got a bigger motive? How do we know he's telling the truth?"

"A bigger motive than saving Lydia?" Kira looks as though she can't even believe someone could suggest such a thing. She absently strokes her thumb against her son's soft, chubby pink cheek as he gurgles happily in her arms.

"It _has_ been a really long time since we've seen him," says Liam, doubtful. "How do we know he's trustworthy?'

"Because this is Lydia's _life_ he's screwing with."

Derek, always impatient, speaks up finally. He's got Tara sitting on his knee, and he's focusing on putting her hair in two bunches that match the ones on the American Girl doll in her lap. Despite the fact that his main focus is wrapping a purple hair elastic around his daughter's pigtail, he seems extremely serious, his grimace reminiscent of the one he seemed to wear perpetually when they were in high school.

"Derek's right," Braeden says. "Stiles wouldn't mess with Lydia's life."

"And we can hear heartbeats," Isaac adds. "We would be able to tell if he was lying."

"He's been able to control that since high school," Malia says dismissively. "That doesn't matter."

"Guys." Scott's voice is earnest. Hopeful. Lydia doesn't know how he does it. "The Argents struck a deal with Stiles. If he's fucking them over, they get to take Lydia. Do you honestly think Stiles would put her through that?"

"Seems like a pretty good revenge plan," points out Cora. Her eyes swivel around, looking at everyone as the pack members all stare at her. "What? Boy meets girl… boy falls in love with girl… girl ignores boy for ten years, give or take, boy dates her, leaves her, and then waits six years to get revenge on her for ignoring him."

"That seems like an unrealistically slow play," comments Mason.

"I'd have to agree," Brett says next to him.

"Okay, are we done?" Having hit his breaking point on listening to other people trashing his character, Stiles gets out of the chair he's sitting on and stands in front of the entire pack. "Look, I know you're all pissed at me and I get that, I do, you have the right. I'll take all the shit you have to throw at me after this, but don't punish _Lydia_ for the fact that I'm a dick. I left. I suck. I _know_. Just… help me to help her. Please."

Everybody's silent until Mr. Argent cuts in. "And to help all of you," he says, very serious. "Don't forget, this serum will affect werewolves and shapeshifters above all else. They're trying to take all of you out to get to Lydia, and we have to steal this weapon to prevent both of those things from happening. You guys should all have the same goals, for now."

Scott looks over at Malia.

"So. Good enough?"

Her lips pull back a little as she looks over at Stiles, but she doesn't say anything. Isaac claps his hands together, popping off of the floor and going to stand up next to Scott, Stiles, and Lydia.

"The plan," he says without further ado. "It's divided into four teams, okay? Each team has an individual goal."

"But _all_ of them are essential and all of them depend on each other," Lydia says, taking over for him. "We need all hands on deck for this."

"What are the goals?"

"Get the chemical and destroy it," Stiles says, ticking it off on his index finger. "That's the first one."

"Then get my mom." Scott says it quietly, as if he's not sure if he should even be burdening them with his words. Lydia subtly moves closer to him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist in a gesture of comfort.

"And, finally," continues Stiles, a gleam in his eye, "kill The Collector."

He says it dramatically, and for a moment, it seems like everybody in the room is collectively holding their breath.

The pack doesn't set out to kill someone. _Stiles_ doesn't set out to kill people.

Braeden is the first to cut through it.

"That's only three," she says. "What's four?"

"Four is tech support— Mason and the sheriff will be waiting in a van around the block. Doctor Deaton will be there too, on standby for any sort of emergency situation," Lydia rattles off. "They'll be helping with surveillance, unlocking doors, making sure all of our communication devices are working properly. Things like that."

"And how exactly are we planning on planting cameras?"

Malia's voice is skeptical. Lydia doesn't blame her.

"Well, that's where our guy on the inside comes in," replies Isaac. "He's already got most of our bugs and cameras set up."

"Spy?" Mason says, looking delighted. " _Who_?"

"Someone who really, really likes to make an entrance," says Stiles fondly. "Dude, you can come in now."

A moment later, Danny's white smile and dimpled cheeks appear in the living room.

"Hey," he says easily, jerking his chin towards everyone in greeting. Over his shoulder, Ethan appears, unsmiling as he's been since high school. "I wasn't actually waiting for a grand entrance, I just got here late."

"Sure ya did, Danny Boy," replies Stiles, rolling his eyes.

"Danny's been working at Valetudine since he finished grad school," Lydia informs the general group. "And we've been in contact with him for a while now, trying to get insider information on The Collector's organization— the people, the groups, the building."

"Good to see you guys," Danny says. "Sorry my company's trying to kill you."

"No harm, no foul," responds Brett, a little dreamily. Mason nudges him.

"Dude."

"What?"

"Group one is going to be headed by Isaac," Scott tells them, jerking his thumb in Isaac's direction. "He'll be working with Liam, Brett, and Cora."

"You guys will be dressed as interns and employees— Danny made you badges and everything. Basically, the plan is to get in and out of the building with the chemical and bring it to my dad, Mason, and Danny, who will be in the van with Lydia's serum to destroy it."

"Danny will also simultaneously be hacking into the system and destroying all the research they have," adds Lydia.

"What about the paper trail?" Derek asks.

"The man who developed the serum, Mr. Rice, replaced his research with fakes before he left," says Stiles, seeming extremely satisfied with that fact. "It's just the cyber stuff that needs to be taken away."

"Now, group two, you guys need to be more surreptitious," Scott says seriously. "Mr. Argent's gonna be leading all of you into the building through the private entrance that The Collector uses, because _nobody_ can know that we're trying to extract my mom."

"And for that, we'll need Kira," Lydia adds. "We need you to short out the keypad that keeps it locked, because Danny isn't privy to that information, and he wasn't able to find it in the system anywhere."

"Derek, Ethan, you'll also be going with Chris and Kira to get my mom."

"Got it," Derek says, squaring his jaw.

"And that leaves me, Scott, Lydia, Braeden, and Malia to kill The Collector," Stiles finishes with satisfaction. "Which I, personally, am very excited for." Lydia rolls her eyes, unable to help herself. "So." Stiles straightens up. Looks out at all of them. "Any questions?"

Almost every hand in the room goes up.

Lydia, Stiles, Isaac, and Scott look out at all of them, blinking.

"Is anybody else getting war flashbacks to the Argents?" asks Isaac out of the corner of his mouth.

Lydia grimaces, nodding at him.

"Guys, this plan is _foolproof_!" Stiles complains.

"There!" says Malia excitedly. "His heart got all unsteady! That was a lie!"

Lydia groans internally. Isaac groans externally.

"Alright," Scott says, scrubbing his hands together. "Let's just get through this one by one, no matter how long it takes. Okay?" Everyone nods. "Alright then. Who's first?"

* * *

Lydia has a new recurring nightmare. She hasn't told Stiles about it because she knows he'll wear it like chains around his wrists, and besides, she doesn't _need_ his comfort. When she dreams about him walking away from her all over again, all she has to do is wake up and feel for his body on the other side of the bed. Warm and hard and _hers_ — a body that he would give up for her if the universe ever called for it.

She loves his body, with the upturned nose and the freckles that dot his back and the legs that are still skinnier than his arms. She loves his body so much. But it's his mind that she loves the most; the thing she would miss were he to walk away from her again. Lydia has accepted the idea that she could lose Stiles again. Which doesn't mean she's not desperate to have him right now, have the man whose fast, stuttering words are starting to come back despite the fact that they don't quite match the permanent furrow between his brow.

Tonight, when she reaches for his body, her own mind still bogged down with sleep, Lydia doesn't find it next to her. The spot on the right side of the bed is cold, as if Stiles had never been in it in the first place.

And unbidden, and defying all logic, her heart leaps into her throat. Nausea rises in her stomach. Her heart begins to pound in her chest.

The covers wind up on the floor after she shoves them back, kicking out of their confines. With bare feet and a heavy heart, Lydia storms out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.

No Stiles.

Next, she checks the kitchen. It's dark, and empty.

Bile rising, she rushes into the living room. It's dark aside from one lamp, placed next to the sheriff's favorite rocking chair. And seated in the armchair is Stiles, a small, wiggling baby placed in the crook of his arm. She recognizes the dark, soft head of Eun, whose tiny fingers are grabbing for the bottle that Stiles holds in his left hand.

"Stiles," Lydia says in relief, her body sagging slightly. He looks up, startled, and takes in her messy hair, panicked eyes, and half-dressed body.

It clicks for him without her having to say anything.

"Oh," he says, deflating. Then: "It's just something we'll have to work on."

Lydia nods, mashing her lips together.

"I'm not… I'm not waiting for you to leave again. I just don't _want_ you to."

It's not a good enough explanation, but it'll have to do. She doesn't want to say anymore.

"It's just something we'll have to work on," repeats Stiles, his voice softer now. "And we do have time, Lydia."

Maybe. They maybe have time.

Or maybe when she walks into Valetudine, she'll never walk back out.

She doesn't say that, though. Instead, she settles onto the couch next to Stiles' chair, placing her chin over her folded hands on top of the armrest.

"I thought Kira left Eun to give Scott something to do."

Stiles starts to smile.

"She did," he says. "But I _finally_ got Scott to sleep, so I didn't want to wake him up. The formula was already mixed anyways."

He's in a t-shirt, and she can see the spot on his arm where he'd tested the temperature of the bottle. Her stomach aches in a different way now.

"Does he cry a lot?" she asks, because she doesn't really know _what_ to ask about a baby. She can see his thin lips, a pale pink that is almost as translucent as the delicate skin on his cheeks.

"He stopped as soon as I started singing Blink 182 songs to him."

Lydia chuckles.

"Now _that_ I'd like to see."

"All you gotta do is not sneak into the shower with me and it'll happen eventually. Just bide your time. I know it's hard, but try to resist the urge to be standing near my wet, naked body."

She hesitates for a moment, then pops up to smack a kiss on his cheek before settling back down onto the couch.

In Stiles' arms, the baby coos.

"Do you think he looks like her?"

"He looks like a squishy ball."

Lydia squints at the baby, who is staring up at Stiles with lazy, contented eyes. He seems to be falling asleep even as he sips from the bottle that Stiles is feeding him. As Eun stares, Stiles stares right back, wonder in his expression.

"What are you thinking about?" whispers Lydia, watching the way the light from the lamp flickers against his sharp cheekbones.

"I'm thinking that they're terrifying." He looks up when Lydia doesn't reply, noticing the confusion on her face. "Kids, I mean."

"Neither of us have younger siblings. We were never really around kids."

"No," Stiles says, shaking his head. "It's not that."

"What is it, then?"

He hesitates before lifting a finger to stroke down the baby's cheek. In that moment, both of them seem so pure. Lydia wants to drill this moment into her memory so that it's the image she always pictures when she thinks about Stiles. But there's too many of those moments— too many nights where the moonlight had thrown his wide-stretched laugh into sharp relief; too many mornings with his hand in hers as they walked down the hallway at school; too many memories that aren't images at all, but are dark. They're the sound of him breathing in as he kisses her, the soft sigh in the back of his throat, the innocent flutter of his eyelids, and the way his bottom lip tastes as she pulls it between hers.

This, though. This is soft in a way that makes her heart slow down instead of speeding up. She wants to remember what it feels like to slow down in a moment with Stiles instead of simply feeling like time has stopped.

The world is turning. They're getting older. She's starting to get crow's feet. He's got shadows underneath his eyes. Their friends are getting married, having babies. Lydia owns an apartment. Stiles owns an obscene amount of baggage. But right now, the only thing that matters is the way Eun is falling asleep cradled in his arms.

"Look at him," says Stiles, nostrils flaring as his Adam's apple works. "Lydia… he's got this fresh slate. He's got an entire _life_ ahead of him right now. He could do anything; be anyone. He's gonna fall in love and have a favorite band and a least favorite subject in school… maybe there's gonna be a person he meets in kindergarten who he'll eventually end up spending his whole life in love with… but _nothing_ has fucked with him yet. Nothing. He's just… perfect."

"And that scares you," Lydia reiterates.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because… I dunno, he's also got violence and anger and cruelty inside of him. And I don't know how to stop that from coming out."

"It's not your responsibility to," points out Lydia, voice careful.

"No," Stiles says, shaking his head. "No, no, but it is, because I left you guys and I vowed to protect you, to keep you safe, and I failed. I didn't stop the world from coming at you. I literally brought this kid's mom into a heist that could _easily_ kill her."

"Kira knows what she's getting into. She volunteered."

"It doesn't matter. I didn't have to ask."

"Stiles—"

"What if she dies, and I fuck this kid up, and he _loses his mom_? What if _Scott_ loses his mom? What if this kid's life, and Scott's life, fall apart? And they get sad and broken and empty just like I am— was. Just like I was."

"We're going to save Melissa. We're going to protect Kira."

"I could fuck this kid up for life. I could make him as angry and lost as I am. But you know what? None of that, _none_ of it, is the worst part, Lydia."

She's tentative when she speaks, afraid to ask. "What's the worst part, then?"

"How he's just… he's helpless." He looks up at her, fervor in his eyes, urgency in his voice. "Can't do anything for himself. Can't speak, can't eat. Nobody should have to deal with that. No one should have to be helpless."

Lydia fills in the gaps.

"You're not talking about Eun."

"No." Stiles' brow wrinkles. "But I'm not talking about me, either."

"Who are you talking about?"

His eyes search her face, skimming all around it, soaking her in. For a moment, he seems tense, as if he's about to pounce— to leap out of his armchair and start to _run_. Instead, he settles back, shoulders relaxing.

"Nobody should ever have to be helpless," repeats Stiles with finality. " _Nobody_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maggie, Rachel, Jade? You guys are the most wonderful partners that a girl could ask for. Thank you for your everlasting love, encouragement, and wisdom. 
> 
> Thank you to you, our readers, for reading this chapter. I think about you guys all the time. My thoughts and prayers are with you for your safety and your happiness. 
> 
> Go take the world by storm. I know you can do it. 
> 
> -Rachel xx


	18. Dahlia (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dahlia, or Dahlia Pinnata
> 
> Staying graceful under pressure in challenging situations. 
> 
> Drawing upon inner strength to succeed.

Per the suggestion of his psychiatrist, Stiles began writing letters to Lydia when he was fourteen. 

Well. The psychiatrist hadn’t exactly named Lydia as the muse. But he did tell Stiles that maybe he should write letters he’d never send as part of his therapy. Letters that meant something to him, where he could express himself, free of judgement. They could even be addressed to someone, so long as they were never sent. 

That was the key. Expression, without consequence. And since the majority of Stiles’ feelings revolved around a particular redhead….

They started as incredibly arbitrary. He’d come home from Scott’s, wired up from hours of Xbox and Mountain Dew and Adderall and teenage  _ feelings _ , and sit down at his desk, composing spectacularly sappy limericks.

He blames it completely on puberty.

...For the most part. Imbalanced hormones can only be excused to a certain extent. Past that extent, there’s only truth. And the truth is that he was hopelessly in love with a girl who had, earlier that day, made fleeting eye contact with him while scrunching up her nose in disgust. 

He still cringes thinking about it. Still vividly remembers how he’d sat down, pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and waxed on and on with trembling, ink stained fingers.

The letters were never supposed to see the light of day. They were his shameful secret, so painfully embarrassing, he hadn’t even told Scott. 

But then it mutated from a secret to a full-blown addiction. He’d write to Lydia as if he was writing in a diary. He’d tell her about his day, and what he thought of the newest Arctic Monkeys album. Only occasionally would he summon the downright audacious act of confessing his feelings. They were few and far between, because even though these letters were  _ his  _ to claim, she was the nucleus of it all. He didn’t want to coerce her. He didn’t want to push. He knew his place, and he was keenly aware of her position in the hierarchy of middle school, top of the food chain.

He just wanted her to know him. Just wanted the person he thought about most to think about him. Just once in awhile.

They always started the same, with her name at the top, simple and sincere. The body fluctuated depending on the day and his mood. Sometimes they were a paragraph. Two lines. Sometimes they were ten pages. He ended them the same too. 

_ Your friend, Stiles.  _

Even in his wildest dreams, it was all he could hope for.

 

 

The trouble came when Scott invited Jeremy over for their daily post-school Xbox ritual. Stiles liked Jeremy enough, but the kid was a try-hard, always trying to get Scott to laugh at his jokes and buttering up to the popular crowd. 

Stiles, for the most part of that afternoon, sucked it up, sulking and playing in silence, his headphones unable to drown out the clicking of the console as their fingers mashed buttons and Jeremy cursed up a storm even though Melissa was home. 

Stiles should have checked his backpack before he left, but he didn’t. 

His letter writing addiction had transcended the confines of his bedroom walls into public places, and he carried the notebook that contained them all in his backpack. The notebook, which Jeremy had stolen.

He didn’t discover the missing notebook until homeroom the next morning.

“Dude,” Scott says as Stiles rips frantically through his garbage heap of a backpack, crumpled papers and a banana peel jumping over the sides onto the tiled floor of the classroom. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“My notebook,” he breathes, barely able to hear his own voice through the rush of blood swimming around his head. 

“What notebook?”

“Oh my god.”

“Stiles, what notebook?”

“Oh my fucking god, oh my god,” and now heads are turning to stare. Stiles doesn’t stop scrambling until everything in his backpack is on the floor, even though he knows he won’t find the notebook at the bottom of the bag. It was the only thing he’d treated with care. 

He buries his head in his arms on his desk, and doesn’t lift it for the next hour. 

 

 

It couldn’t be that bad. With every letter he wrote, he’d immediately rip it out of the notebook and store it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He should thank his lucky stars that Jeremy hadn’t discovered the incriminating drawer. But no amount of wishful thinking and silver linings can quell the bottomless pit in his stomach that forms and stays through the rest of the week.

Did Jeremy give it to Jackson? Did he share it with the whole table and they all laughed at Stiles? Or is he holding it for ransom, like blackmail? He figures his best move is to play it cool. He avoids Jeremy. He comes up with scenarios in his head. 

_ Notebook? What notebook? Nah dude, not my handwriting. Must be another Stiles? I don’t know, man. _

He vaguely remembers what his last letter to her says. It was an Adderall-induced rambling. He talked about how his dad is now six months sober, and how the dance is coming up, and while it was always fine when he went with just Scott, he doesn’t want things to be fine anymore. He’s tired of just fine. 

He talked about how he aced his last test, but he figured she probably scored bonus points and thus got a better grade. He talked about how he’s going to cut his hair because it hangs over his ears and makes them itch, and he talks about how last summer he broke his leg skateboarding with Scott and it still aches when they do the mile in gym class. 

It’s so fucking humiliating. 

But the worst part, the very worst part, is the end, where he tells Lydia he liked the dress she wore on Monday, the one that ends above her knees, and blew in the breeze in the courtyard. 

He used the word, ‘lovely,’ because he’s a sap, obviously. He writes letters to a girl who ignores his existence. He’s in love with Lydia. Has been for a while.

And no letter is going to change that, discovered or otherwise. 

The letter concludes with a wish to go to the dance with her, and then rambles, finally ending with the sentence, ‘ _ I just want you to have fun, I guess. Even if we never go together to a dance, it’d be nice if we just had one song, you know? I don’t think anything would be only fine anymore if we had one song _ .’

It’s so desperate and lonely he aches with mortification just thinking about it. 

 

 

The night of the dance, Stiles comes home from school and finds the notebook sitting on his kitchen counter. 

“Dad!” Stiles squawks out. “Dad what is this?”

His dad turns his head from the television to peer into the kitchen. “Oh,” he says, easy as pie. “Got the car detailed today, found that shoved in the backseat. It’s yours right? I told you to stop leaving your backpack unzipped, you’re gonna lose stuff.”

Stiles remembers his jaw hanging open as he flipped the cover and the letter appeared, still intact and undiscovered. 

_ Lydia, _

_ Your friend, Stiles. _

 

 

He goes to the dance with Scott and watches as Lydia twirls under pink and blue lights, wrapped in the cage of Jackson’s arms.

He comes home later that night and rips up every single letter in the drawer until he’s sitting in his suit in a pile of paper and things are just fine again. Everything goes back to fine.

  
__

* * *

  
  


 

Scott drums his fingers awkwardly on the wheel, while Stiles eats away at the skin of his thumb, eyes unfocused as California suburbs give way to city. 

Lydia doesn’t have to say that it’s the bad part of town, because her body talks for the entire cabin of the car. They drive past a group of men that stare a little too long at her reflection as Scott’s Prius hums by, and she slowly shifts away from the window, head ducking closer to his side.

Her hands clutch each other in her lap, rather than his forearm, the main indicator of her apprehension. Their unease hangs heavy in the air like perfume, and he swallows thickly as a crumbling concrete building marks ten more miles until their destination. 

He recognizes it, remembers how every late night drive brought him back to the building on his journey back to the flat. He would even mark it in his mind, ‘ten more miles, ten more minutes.’ It’s the same building with the sprawling graffiti  _ Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,  _ emblazoned with violent crimson. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to tell Scott and Lydia that the tag is actually a warning. Someone had written it about him; a message for the supernatural that somewhere in this radius, The Shadow, Neamhní, lives close by. He doesn’t know how to break it to them, so instead he dips his nose into the part in Lydia’s hair and closes his eyes, letting the outside world blur by him until his eyes close and it’s blissfully dark. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I never thought you’d have me,” Stiles says to her when they’re standing in the empty space of his expunged loft. Somewhere in the opposite corner of the apartment, Scott is looking out the window in the room that used to be his bedroom, lost in his own thoughts. 

It seems like years ago she slept naked in his bedsheets while he laid on the couch, feet away, aching so fiercely he couldn’t sleep. 

He used to ache like that for her all the time. Used to lay awake with tears in his eyes, so he’d push down with his fingers into them until his vision burned and his buzzed head scraped against the pillowcase. 

Lydia turns to him, her hand squeezing his. He continues, “I never, never thought I’d have this. And then when I had it, I never thought I deserved it. I couldn’t--fuck. Wrap my head around it. It seemed impossible.”

“That’s the thing about impossibility,” Lydia says, and it comes out sounding somewhere between a laugh and a choke. “Impossibility is only something that isn’t true at that moment, simply because it hasn’t happened yet.” She drops his hand and walks into the open space between the living room and the kitchen. “Impossibility...is really just lying in wait.” 

She’s so fucking smart.

“I could kiss you right now.” He smiles at the ground.  
  


* * *

 

 

Stiles may have scrubbed his apartment clean from any incriminating evidence, but the letters remain; the letters he hid, should any mission go awry, and he’d never be able to say what he needed to say to Scott, Lydia, his father.

Scott watches, white knuckled and jaw clenched, as Stiles slowly peels back the floorboard of his bedroom. Lydia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and Stiles just feels...fucking uncomfortable. 

His skin prickles as he fishes his hand into the dark and pulls out yellowed letters, wrapped in wolfsbane. 

“I wanted you to be able to find it,” he explains hollowly to Scott. “I knew you’d find me eventually. And then you’d be able to find this place, and then...you know. These.”

Scott just stares at the letters, as if they had committed the personal offense, and not Stiles himself. 

“There’s one for you, and Lydia, and my Dad,” Stiles murmurs, unwinding the rope of wolfsbane and moving to the window to discard it. “It explains everything about what I did, and my where my headspace was...and it apologizes.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Scott--”

“I said I don’t fucking want it.” The expletive is so foreign sounding on Scott’s tongue that Stiles pauses, holding the letters in an awkwardly outstretched hand. “I don’t fucking want to read them, Stiles.”

Lydia moves to Scott, gently winding her arms around his bicep. “Scott,” She soothes, “Scott, it’s okay--”

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “No, it’s not okay. You need to read this, Scott. You have to.”

“You’ve told me everything,” Scott says, and he’s pleading now. “Stiles, there’s nothing more--”

“Read it.”

“No.”

“I  _ left _ , Scott. I fucking  _ left _ \--”

“We all did, in some way or another. I moved out of town. Lydia hasn’t been in contact with the pack. We’ve all been starting our lives. We’ve all been running away from this.”

“But that’s the thing!” Stiles both shouts and laughs in disbelief. “That’s the difference, Scott! I didn’t leave Beacon Hills. I didn’t leave the burden of our responsibility, or the fact that we woke the Nemeton when we were sixteen. I left  **you** .” And Stiles thrusts his hand to him, letters gripped tight in his fist. “Take this. God, please, Scott.”

They stand in sickening, thick silence, as the three of them watch Stiles’ hand tremble. He wants Scott to read the letter addressed to him. He wants him to know he is the best damn thing that ever happened to Stiles. That just having his friendship and company and support has been everything. Has meant everything. Means everything. 

“Scott,” Stiles whispers, and his voice breaks. Lydia’s hands are tight on Scott’s arm, and she’s looking at the letters like she’s afraid. Scott’s looking at him, though. Seeing him,  _ really  _ seeing him, just like he always has. 

“I used to think we were beyond that, because of everything we had been through,” Scott says into the quiet, empty space between them. Sunlight hits his face, dust dancing around his head. “But the truth is, this is life, Stiles. People grow in and out of other people, and some leave us for good.” Scott doesn’t have to say names. They know who he’s talking about.  “The thing is, we did beat it. We are different. Not because you left, but because you came back.”

 

* * *

 

It’s almost comical, the way they stand and stare at the metal garbage bin in the alleyway behind the apartment for what seems like hours. It’s chipped blue paint, bullet holes, reeking of rotting produce, seemingly face-value and nondescript. But inside are those stupid, stupid letters, and that’s what makes all the difference. 

Scott clears his throat and shuffles his feet, eyeing Stiles expectantly. Lydia just stares at the bin. Just stares and stares and stares.

Stiles wills his hand to move over the opening of the can and drop it in, the one that’s flicking the switch of his lighter off and on, off and on, off--

“Do it, Stiles,” Scott says, somehow both authoritative and unperturbed. And Stiles would. He’d totally drop the lighter and let the letters light up like the fourth of July until they’re nothing but ash and broken promises, because he’s been given the out. But it’s Lydia that makes his hand still, save for the rough clicking of his thumb on the switch. 

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for her body to tell him what to do next. But her body is a fortress, and Stiles has loved and watched long enough to recognize when she has retreated behind her impenetrable walls. 

So he gives her something, because that’s all he can do, really. “This wasn’t the only letter I’ve written to you,” he tells her, and it comes out so softly. She looks up at him then, eyes dull and empty enough to break his heart. “I used to write to you all the time. I started when I was fourteen. I must have written two dozen at the very least.”

It’s what Lydia loves. Information, knowing something she hadn’t before. It’s also information in the form of a confession, giving her the power. Stiles knows that when he cracks his chest cavity open and lets himself spill out, she’s receptive to it. She wants to gather his mess in her hands, and cradle it close.

“I can tell you exactly what the letter says, if you want. I have it memorized. Or I can tell you how it begins and ends. Or you can read it right now, and keep it on you for the rest of your life. Whatever you want, Lydia. Whatever helps.”

Lydia shakes her head, brushing her fingers absentmindedly through the ends of her curls, and lets out a shaky breath that has Scott moving closer to her so he can put a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” Lydia admits, eyes back on the rusting garbage bin. “I don’t really know what I want right now.” And her words feels so loaded that Stiles feels his stomach flip, remembering when she had wondered aloud if they should be together. 

He had always wondered if they should be together, but the answer had always be an all-encompassing, earth shattering,  **yes** . But those were the days when he hadn’t had her, and she was that impossibility that hadn’t happened yet. She was that impossibility that had his head swimming with the reality that she was Lydia, and he was Stiles, and this was a pipe dream, even though every nerve in his body screamed out for her. 

It was one thing to know he’d never be with her, and another to have to live it. And suddenly, he’s fourteen with his hand shaking and ink on his palm, and the weight of knowing that she’d never love him, and if this indescribable, impossible connection to her was nothing but a feverish fantasy--a crush gone completely haywire--then why can’t he shake it?

He swallows the lump in his throat and hands the lighter to her, vulnerable in his open palm. 

“It starts with ‘Lydia,’ and ends with ‘Your friend, Stiles,’” he croaks. Beginning and ending just like every letter he had written her all those years ago. “Everything else is up to you, Lydia.” 

And then Lydia, his beginning and ending, takes the lighter from his hand, conjures a flame and drops it so the letters light up and burn out, right before their very eyes.   
  


* * *

  
  


“Oh,” Kira says, eyes wide. Baby Eun gurgles happily on her hip. “Sorry Stiles, I didn’t know you were out here…” she trails off before she says the word ‘alone.’ 

“Can I hold him?”

“Er...I mean, everyone else is inside, eating dinner. I just stepped out to breastfeed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’ll give you privacy.” 

Kira gives him a funny look, a small smile spreading. “No,” she grins and shakes her head. “It’s alright. Here.” 

Eun peers at Stiles as Kira hands his soft body into the cradle of Stiles’ arms. 

He’s held babies before. He loves babies. 

It’s just that...he’s wanted to hold baby Eun for a long time now. Three months, to be exact, when Kira was in labor and Stiles and Lydia were running for their lives around Europe. 

Baby Eun looks up at him and gurgles around his chubby fist. “Hey Buddy.” Stiles says. Eun grins. 

Kira sits down next to Stiles, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Stiles.” 

He trails a finger around the shell of the baby’s ear, so small and simple. “Did you get the Tiger Lillies I sent your hospital room? I remembered Scott saying they were your favorite.”

“Yes. They stayed by my bedside the entire time.”

“...You shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t,” Kira says firmly, and it’s probably the most assertive she’s ever been with him, even though her eyes are still soft when Stiles looks up from Eun’s gaze to hers. “It’s my choice to be here.”

“But, you have a family now. You have a husband. You have a whole life, and people to take care of. People who need you--”

“Lydia is my whole life. Lydia needs me. Scott.  _ You _ .”

He doesn’t understand it...can’t wrap his head around it. Kira acts as if her decision is an act of selfless love. But to Stiles, it’s selfish, and encumbered with an aftermath that would be alarming at best, and deadly at worst. She was voluntarily entering in a war that would end lives, right as Eun’s was just beginning. And that just seemed completely...unforgivable. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just pushes his legs off the wooden porch and rocks his body until Eun’s eyes droop. 

Kira watches him silently, and then when Eun’s eyes completely close, she lifts him gently from the cradle of Stiles’ arms. “Guess he was tired, not hungry. Lots of people around, it can overstimulate him sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

“Motherhood is funny like that. Sometimes you think you know exactly what the baby needs, but you can be wrong. It’s a shallow kind of understanding of love, don’t you think?” And then she smiles sweetly, like she didn’t just drop the greatest metaphor of all time on a gaping Stiles, turns, and leaves him alone on the porch with his thoughts.

 

* * *

  
  


The pack eats the same way they did in high school. 

Everything turns into finger food, and laughing with mouths full. Liam is talking with his hands in a way that makes Mason shake his head and Brett laugh open-mouthed into the nook of Mason’s neck. Isaac and Danny are tucked away in an alcove, no doubt discussing art films with their pinkies in the air and their noses even higher. Kira, Malia, Braeden and Lydia are all fawning over the sleeping Eun, and Braeden’s daughter, with tight, terracotta curls and skin the color of earth, leans over to grin toothily at him. Cora and Ethan are piling a second helping of food onto their plates while Deaton, Derek, Scott and Chris murmur conspiratorily to one another at the kitchen table. Hayden would be joining the group tomorrow, and Stiles didn’t know if Corey was blending into a wall by supernatural means, or by humdrum Corey means. 

Overall, it was the quintessential picture of reunion and camaraderie, making it almost easy to forget that Melissa was missing and people would go into The Collector’s building tomorrow morning and never come back out, unless it was in a body bag. 

He looks over at Lydia. 

Lydia’s already looking back at him.

 

* * *

  
  
  


Lydia tiptoes into his bedroom, towel around her body and hair dripping onto the carpet. 

“Hey,” she whispers to him, even though his dad isn’t home and everyone left to get sleep half an hour ago with the promise to rendezvous tomorrow morning. 

He whispers a greeting back to her, watching as she continues to tiptoe over to the bed, sitting next to him on the edge, her feet dangling above the floor because her legs are too short to reach.

She always does that. She always tiptoes after getting out of the shower, as if she’s delicately sneaking around. It’s so dainty. So opposite of his memories of her strutting down the hallway at school, heels clicking off the linoleum like a sultry metronome. 

He takes her hand in his and they just sit, shoulder to shoulder, blinking unthinkingly at the carpet. 

Her hand is so small in his. He remembers the first time he held her hand. The way she had thrust it between his as he pulled her down a hallway, and they ran so fast their hearts felt only a beat away from exploding out of their chests. 

“What I wouldn’t give,” he begins, and it breaks in the air between them. He clears his throat and tries again, but the words stick to the back of his tongue and grind out, more air than voice. “What I wouldn’t give to tell the kid with the letters that you are here with me, on the bed I used to dream about you on. That we made it. We made it, for now.” 

Lydia nods. “For now.”

“We could have forever, you know. If everything ends up okay in the end, after tomorrow, we could have forever.”

When Lydia turns to him, her eyes are red. “Stiles--” she begins. But he can’t do this right now. He can’t talk about the possibility of separation from her, in any way. In any universe. 

It’s a true, lasting impossibility. 

“No, Lydia. Don’t. You’re gonna make it.”

“Stiles--”

But he’s kissing her. He brushes his lips against her, and they’re wet, even though he can’t tell if it’s coming from her eyes or his. 

“I’ve wanted this forever,” he says into her mouth. “I’ve needed this, everyday since I knew you, Lydia. Every goddamn day.” And there’s a whimper comes from Lydia that sounds so unknowable to his ears. He’s never heard her make a noise like that. “We’re gonna make it, Lydia. You and me. We’re gonna make it.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million for your patience and support. And to Jade, Rachel, and Rachel, for carrying me through like always. Last premiere of Teen Wolf EVER, and it's tomorrow! But it's not the only thing that's concluding. The end is neigh. Are you ready?
> 
> -Maggie  
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


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